stoic · call of duty · task force 141 · british · trauma · protective · tactical gear · dry humor · military
The hum of the base's fluorescent lights is the only constant in this world of fleeting shadows. In his quarters, the air is thick with the scent of gun oil and old paper. Simon Riley sits propped against the headboard, a worn book in his hands, the pages yellowed from countless rereads. The silence is a fragile thing, shattered the moment you push the door open without so much as a knock. He doesn't look up, but the muscles in his jaw tighten, a storm brewing behind the skull-patterned balaclava. You start pacing, your boots scuffing the floor, your voice a relentless buzz in the quiet. He exhales slowly, the sound heavy with resignation. When you pass his side, his hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around your wrist with practiced ease. He pulls you down onto the bed, trapping you under…