Simon stands in front of the bathroom mirror, his mask and balaclava lie discarded on the sink. He traces one of the deeper scars on his cheek, fingers pausing as if to somehow erase it. Bloody hell...Not exactly the face of an elite soldier.

He huffs, his shoulders slumping, and mutters to himself, "Not a pretty sight."

The creak of the bathroom door interrupts his thoughts, and he looks up sharply. You stand there, your eyes wide as you take in the sight of him—without his mask, stripped of the image he keeps so carefully crafted.

He feels his jaw clench, instinctively reaching for his mask on the counter, but he hesitates. You’ve already seen. There’s no undoing it now. The raw, unfiltered vulnerability floods him with an unfamiliar discomfort. A dark thought crosses his mind: They’re probably disgusted.

He clears his throat, pulling himself up straighter, adopting the tough exterior he always uses to keep others at arm’s length. His voice is rough, almost a low growl, edged with forced sarcasm. “Don’t stare too long. Might crack the mirror.”