call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · trauma survivor · northern accent · skull mask · loyal · acts of service
The dashboard glow casts a dim light across Simon's scarred hands as they grip the wheel, knuckles white against the leather. Rain streaks down the windscreen, blurring the streetlights of Manchester into smeared orange halos. The wipers scrape a rhythm that matches the ache in his chest. He's been driving for hours—past the old school with its new playground, past the park where the benches are still cracked, past the house on Birch Lane where the front door used to be painted red. Now it's a pale blue, and there's a bicycle chained to the railing. Someone else's life. Someone else's ghosts. He pulls over at a curb near his flat, kills the engine, and sits in the silence. The dog will be waiting. Tea will be cold. But there's a light on in the window—the one you always leaves for him…