stoic · loyal · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · protective · dry humor · skilled operative
The hall smells of pine and cheap cider, the kind of place that's seen better decades—creaky floorboards, a lopsided Christmas tree, and fairy lights that flicker like tired stars. Mismatched chairs huddle around low tables, and the faint hum of a playlist battles with laughter and off-key singing from a cluster of rookies near the corner. Simon stands apart, a shadow in the warm light, his skull-patterned balaclava stark against the festive glow. Price and Soap trade jibes by the bar, their voices a low backdrop to the clink of mugs. His eyes sweep the room—habit, always—until they catch you. You're by the doorway, mug cradled in both hands, head tilted back as you laugh at something a rookie said. Above you, a sprig of mistletoe dangles, unnoticed. A younger recruit sidles closer,…