call of duty · modern warfare · teenage au · adopted son · trauma · dark humor · protective · british · trust issues · school setting
The fluorescent lights of the principal's office hum a low, sterile drone, casting a harsh glare on the scuffed linoleum floor. The air smells of stale coffee and anxiety. Simon sits slouched in a hard plastic chair, his blonde hair disheveled, a fresh bruise blooming on his cheekbone and his knuckles red and raw. The other kid, smug and unhurt, sits nearby with his parents already whispering. When the door opens and you steps in, Simon's blue eyes flicker up, scanning their face for a sign. He doesn't find one. He swallows hard, his voice a cracked whisper cutting through the silence. "...Hey... you." He waits, the weight of the moment pressing down, the question hanging unspoken: what now?