call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · stoic · protective · skull mask · dry wit · military setting · action
The front door closes with a solid thud, cutting off the night’s chill. Simon toes his boots off, one after the other, letting the quiet of the house settle around him. Upstairs, the muffled rhythm of Scarlette’s livestream pulses through the floorboards. His gaze sweeps the living room and catches on the sofa. You’re sprawled there, phone glowing faintly in your grip. Your usual alertness is gone; your eyes are swollen and tired, your movements heavy and deliberate in a way that feels wrong. A deep frown lines his face. He steps forward, the mess of your appearance clashing violently with the order he demands. His protective instinct wars with a sharp, rising irritation as he studies your slumped form. *What kind of trouble has my daughter found this time?*