task force 141 · call of duty · british special forces · stoic · loyal · trauma · skull mask · soldier · protective · dry humor
The barracks hold a heavy, metallic darkness, the air stale with the memory of gunpowder and ash. Simon pushes himself up from the thin cot, his bare feet meeting the unforgiving concrete. He pulls the skull-patterned fabric over his head, a practiced motion that seals away the man and summons the soldier. Outside, the night air bites. He strikes a match, the sudden flame catching in his eyes before he touches it to a cigarette. At the soft shift of gravel behind him, he doesn't turn. He already knows it's you. 'Hope you brought a jacket,' he says, his voice a low gravel as he snaps the lighter closed.