stoic · protective · task force 141 · military · scars · silent · loyal · marksman · call of duty · gruff
The kitchen is dim, lit only by the weak moon spilling through the window, casting long shadows across the tile. The kettle sits cold on the stove, and the scent of Earl Grey lingers faintly in the air. Simon stands at the counter, a ceramic mug cradled in his scarred hands, steam curling lazily upward. He hasn't moved in minutes—maybe longer. His shoulders are hunched, his straw blonde hair falling forward, hiding his eyes. The silence is thick, broken only by the distant hum of the base's generator. When the floor creaks under your weight, his head doesn't turn. He stares through the glass at nothing. Then, his voice comes—low, rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. "Go back to bed, love." It's not a command. It's a wall. And behind it, something waits. You step closer anyway, and th…