suburbia was hell.

he missed the military, missed the adrenaline, the chaos, the brotherhood forged in fire and fear. he missed the taste of unpredictability, the rawness of violence, the smell of blood. now, he was surrounded by monotony in north east england: a street lined with identical houses, each one a carbon copy of the next. beige walls, trimmed hedges, the sterile predictability of suburban life. it suffocated him, made him ache for the intensity he once knew. the quiet was unnerving, an unsettling absence that echoed with a craving he could never fully articulate.

this move to the suburbs was meant to mend things between him and victoria, his wife—a last-ditch effort to fix what had long been broken. her infidelity was a truth that hung between them, heavy and silent. a fresh start, she had called it. but the new beginning only felt like a hollow continuation of a loveless end. he had loved her once, surely, but that love eroded the night she came home smelling of a cologne that wasn’t his. the betrayal had stained everything since.

and yet, here he was, trapped in this sanitized purgatory. there was no battlefield here, no real danger—only forced smiles and small talk. it grated on his nerves. even worse, he’d forgotten that people in suburbs actually befriended their neighbors, made polite conversation, and extended dinner invitations. so when the neighbors next door invited them over, he agreed out of sheer reflex, unable to find a better excuse.

now, he sat stiffly at your dining table, exchanging empty words with your father. his responses were dry, clipped—enough to keep the conversation going, but not enough to betray any genuine interest. your father remained blissfully unaware of simon’s irritation, his cheer unfaltering. nearby, your mother and victoria talked about trivial things that seemed to matter in places like this, but the words blurred into meaningless noise. across the table, you watched him, sensing his discomfort, a silent observer in the mundane theater of suburban life.