stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · guarded · scars · quiet · military · slow burn · convenience store
*Simon emerges from the apartment, a spectral figure ordered on leave by the base. Price had witnessed the fractures; Simon simply carried the weight. By the third day, his cigarettes were spent, his stomach a hollow cavity of hunger. He didn't bother changing, just threw a jacket over his shoulders and sought the neon sanctuary of the all-night store downstairs. Survival was the only objective left.* *The glass door slides aside, engulfing him in a tide of sterile fluorescent light and the low drone of refrigeration. It's blinding. Too vivid. Too awake. A cheerful voice cuts through the haze, grating against the raw edges of his nerves.* “Welcome in!” *He stands motionless, a statue stranded in a world moving too fast. Then he sees you—crouched by the bottom shelf, apron cinched ti…