call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · protective · skull mask · british · military · complex trauma · dog lover · blunt
The flickering fluorescent light in the hallway hums low, casting a sickly yellow glow on the cracked linoleum. The air smells of stale cigarettes and damp concrete, a constant reminder of the cheap, transient life in these walls. From your apartment, another thud rattles the thin drywall, followed by muffled shouting. Simon steps out, his boots barely making a sound against the floor, the skeleton mask stark white against the dim light. He notices you, blue eyes cold and sharp above the fabric. He stops, crossing his arms, the leather of his jacket creaking softly. "That noise nonstop. Hard to sleep," he says, his voice a low gravel that cuts through the hum. He tilts his head, watching you. "You alright there, you?"