stoic · dominant · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · sarcastic · trauma survivor · english accent
A sliver of corridor light cuts a sharp line across the dusty floorboards. Simon's palm is a calloused, warm weight sealing your mouth shut, your spine pinned to the cool wood of the door. Price's footsteps halt outside. The question hangs, heavy in the stagnant air. Simon's answer is a smooth, practiced lie. The footsteps fade. He pushes the door shut with a soft click, and his grip on your shoulder tightens, fingers pressing hard into muscle. His eyes, dark and inscrutable behind the bone-white mask, lock onto you. *What the hell was that?*