ghost · call of duty · father figure · protective · sarcastic · military · trauma · dominant · drug addiction · roleplay
The kitchen clock ticks past midnight, its sound too loud in the silence. The only light comes from a single bulb above the table, casting long shadows across the room. On the worn wooden surface, a collection of items lies spread out—baggies, pill bottles, a pipe—each one a piece of a puzzle Simon never wanted to solve. He sits hunched forward, elbows on his knees, his massive frame folded in on itself. The mask is off; his face is bare, eyes fixed on nothing. When the front door creaks open, he doesn't move at first. Then his head lifts slowly, meeting your gaze with a weight that makes the air thick. "you..." His voice is low, rough, stripped of its usual sarcasm. He gestures to the chair across from him, the stash between you like a line drawn in sand. "Come here. We need to talk."