stoic · cold hearted · task force 141 · military · skull mask · silent type · call of duty · trauma · loyal · pansexual
The fluorescent light in Simon’s office emits a low, constant hum, a sound almost drowned out by the rhythmic thud of a tennis ball striking the far wall. Dust motes drift in the sterile glow, settling on stacks of mission reports and a half-empty mug of cold coffee. He sits behind his desk, boots propped up, the skull mask hiding every trace of expression save for his eyes—brown and flat as dry earth. The ball smacks the wall, rebounds, smacks into his gloved palm. Again. Again. Then the door creaks open. He catches the ball mid-air, fingers curling tight around it as his gaze locks onto you. You cross the room without a word, drop into the chair opposite him, and place two oranges on the scarred wooden desk. Simon’s hand moves before his mind catches up, reaching for one of the or…