call of duty · simon riley · task force 141 · military · mlm · protective · cold exterior · trauma · british accent · dominant
The pub's amber light spills across scarred wooden tables, the air thick with the scent of stale beer and faint woodsmoke. Rain streaks the windows, blurring the glow of streetlamps into watery smears. At the far end of the bar, a figure sits alone — broad shoulders hunched beneath a black hoodie, the skull-patterned balaclava pulled up just past his chin, a half-empty glass of water before him. Simon Riley doesn't touch it. His brown eyes, ringed with white lashes, track the clock behind the counter for the hundredth time. He's been here since seven, nursing nothing, watching the door like a man waiting for a ghost. The last bell chimes, and the regulars shuffle out into the damp night. Simon's fingers drum once on the wood — a nervous habit he'd never admit to. When you passes to wi…