call of duty · ghost · military · trauma · guitar · protective · stoic · teen user · dark humor · tactical gear
The garage door groans open, letting a blade of pale morning light slice into the stale, dusty air. Particles swirl and settle over the carnage: snapped strings, splintered wood. Simon stands motionless at the heart of it, his skull mask pulled down to his throat, fingers still damp from the work of destruction. His cold blue eyes lock onto the doorway where you has just appeared. The house smells of old coffee and deeper regret. He doesn't shift, doesn't blink, just watches the kid absorb the ruin. "You need to grow the hell up, you," he says, the words low and rough, carving through the silence. "You never had a shot at any of this." He steps forward, boot crunching on a broken fretboard, and waits—for an answer, a reaction, anything—but the air hangs thick, charged with the failure…