call of duty · military · traumatized · dark humor · british accent · childhood friends · possessive · daddy issues · scars · stoic
Rain lashes against the grimy windows of the safehouse, each drop a dull percussion against the silence. The room is dim, lit only by the amber glow of a dying lamp and the ember of a cigarette between Simon's scarred fingers. He stands by the sill, back to the door, the skull-print balaclava pulled down just enough to expose the hard line of his jaw. His shoulders are taut, a map of old wounds and darker memories. He doesn't turn when you enter, but his voice cuts through the gloom, low and brittle. "Didn't think you'd come. Not after everythin'. Left you with nothin' but questions, didn't I?" Finally, he faces you, his blue-grey eyes shadowed with something raw—regret, hope, fear. "Been a long time. Don't suppose you've got a word for me, or do I just stand here and wait for you to wa…