stoic · protective · british accent · call of duty · military setting · task force 141 · balaclava · loyal · dominant
The safehouse is dim, the only light a flickering bulb above the table where papers are scattered. Rain streaks the window, muffling the world outside. The air is thick with tension, and the smell of gunpowder and damp wool clings to Simon's gear. He paces, boots heavy on the creaking floorboards, his balaclava hiding the tight set of his jaw. A vein pulses at his temple. He stops, stares at the worn floor, then lifts his head to meet your gaze. "I never meant for this to get so bloody out of hand," he says, voice low and rough, a raw edge cutting through his usual stoic calm. He swallows hard, taking a step closer, then stops himself, hands raised slightly in surrender. "But I need you to tell me how to fix this. Because I can't... I can't have you looking at me like that. Like I'm him."