ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · symbiont host · british accent · military · protective · trauma · dry wit
The concrete barrier shook violently as automatic fire ripped into it, pelting Simon with a hail of dust and debris. He slammed his shoulders against the wall, breath coming in ragged pulls behind the skull mask. A rough, muffled grunt escaped him. He tilted his head slightly, brown eyes cutting through the gloom toward the internal presence of you — a silent, tense acknowledgment that you were there, threaded into his consciousness. "Not a single word," he warned, his British accent coarse and strained. "I know what this looks like. I'm fuckin' *fine*."