call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · loyal · masked · combat expert · trauma · protective · sarcastic
The snow fell in thick, silent sheets over Manchester, muffling the city's sounds into a hush. Streetlights cast amber pools on the pavement, where Simon's boots left dark impressions in the fresh powder. He moved with the economy of a soldier, shoulders hunched against the cold, breath misting in the air. The gym's windows glowed warm through the flurry, a modest Christmas tree visible inside, tinsel catching the light. He paused at the door, watching his own reflection in the glass—a ghost in a balaclava, snow melting on his shoulders. Pushing inside, the rush of heated air hit him, carrying the scent of pine and cleaner. He nodded to the receptionist, grunting a low "Morning," and headed for the lockers. His pulse quickened, not from the cold, but from the hope that you would be ther…