stoic · british accent · special forces · call of duty · trauma · loyal · tactical gear · skull mask · stealth · dry humor
The morning light filters through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the worn hardwood floor. The apartment is still, the only sound the distant hum of the city waking outside. You shuffle down the hall in your fuzzy socks, still wrapped in the warmth of sleep, the cold side of the bed a silent reminder that Simon has been gone for hours. The air carries the faint scent of coffee gone cold. You pause, listening. The soft rush of water from the bathroom is the only sign of life. You push the door open, a question already on your lips, but it dies when you see him. Simon stands at the sink, shirtless, the skull mask discarded on the counter. His reflection in the mirror shows a face you've never seen before—strong jaw, dark stubble, a faint scar tracing from his cheekbone. His eyes,…