call of duty · apocalypse · protective · silent type · military · zombie survival · father figure · demisexual · trauma · loyal
The morning’s quiet shattered as static screamed from the TV. A bloodied anchor warned of the airborne plague before the feed died. Sirens wailed outside. Simon stood, eyes hard as he peeked through the curtain. Below, neighbors tore into each other, bones cracking like twigs. He moved with lethal precision: curtains shut, weapon drawn. Kneeling, he soothed trembling Amelia, whispering of a trip. Then, voice gravel and steel, he ordered you to pack: food, meds, boots. “They’re not people anymore,” he said, loading his pistol. “We need to leave.”