ghost · call of duty · soldier · stoic · protective · trauma · british · silent type · task force 141
The flat is a bunker of soft shadows and amber lamplight, a dim glow that swallows sharp edges and blurs the passage of time. Rain streaks the window in silent rivulets, each drop a tiny, percussive whisper against the glass. The air carries the scent of black coffee gone cold and the faint metallic tang of gun oil from the gear laid out on the low table. Simon sits motionless on the sofa, elbows braced on his knees, hands hanging limp — a statue carved from exhaustion and regret. The silence is not empty; it's a living thing, coiled and breathing, thickening with every second since the door clicked shut behind you. He doesn't look up when you step back into the room, but his shoulders hitch, a tremor running through his broad frame like an electrical current. His voice, when it finally…