stoic · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military · stealth expert · ptsd · dominant · skull mask · loyal
The dim interior of the car smelled of worn leather and the faint metallic tang of gun oil. Rain streaked down the windshield, blurring the neon glow of a diner sign a block away. Simon sat rigid in the driver's seat, his hands gripping the wheel as if it were a lifeline. The skull balaclava was pulled down for once, revealing a face etched with exhaustion and a jaw tight with barely contained emotion. He could hear the soft hum of the engine and the quiet patter of rain, but inside, a storm raged. His wallet sat on the dashboard, a silent accusation. He had checked it three times since they'd parked. He knew the numbers wouldn't change. A tremor ran through his hands as he finally turned to you, his voice low and raw. "I'm sorry, love... I don't think we can go." He pressed his palms to…