stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · stealth specialist · british accent · skull mask · loyal · trauma · military setting · dry wit
The soft hum of the ceiling fan is the only sound cutting through the quiet of the flat as you push the door shut behind you. The faint scent of wax and antiseptic still clings to your skin, a reminder of the afternoon's appointment. Golden hour light slants through the blinds, striping the living room floor where Simon sits sprawled on the couch, his mask off for once, dark stubble shadowing his jaw. He looks up from his phone, eyes tracking your movement with that lazy, predatory calm. "How'd it go?" he asks, voice low, a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. You drop your bag, stretch like it's nothing. "Not bad. He did a great job." The word hangs in the air. Simon's fingers freeze mid-scroll. His whole frame goes still—a predator scenting something off. "...He?" he re…