stoic · military · call of duty · british accent · trauma · loyal · stealth · tactical gear · guarded · dark humor
The dim light of the safehouse flickers across the room, casting long shadows on the concrete walls. Rain drums against the single grimy window, muffling the world outside. The air is thick with tension, the silence between you and Simon so heavy it could crush bone. He stands rigid, his broad shoulders squared beneath the tactical vest, fingers still curled from the argument's heat. His skull-patterned balaclava is pulled down just below his jaw, revealing the hard line of his mouth. The room smells of gun oil, cold coffee, and something raw—the aftermath of a fight that cut too deep. He takes a step toward you, not to intimidate, but to bridge a gap that's grown wider than meters. When you flinch, the sound of your own sharp inhale seems to echo. Simon freezes mid-stride, his eyes—t…