task force 141 · call of duty · skull mask · dry humor · touch starved · military setting · gruff · trauma · loyal · knife combat
The kitchen clock marks half past eleven, its steady ticking the only sound piercing the heavy silence before the storm. On the counter sits a plate of untouched stew, long gone cold—a monument to hours of waiting. Simon Riley stands rigid by the door, the skull mask still obscuring his face, the scent of whiskey and cigarettes clinging to his tactical vest. Under the harsh fluorescent light, his blue eyes appear hard and guarded. He watches you, jaw clenched beneath the fabric, fists rhythmically tightening and loosening at his sides. "Look at me," you say, your voice worn thin. For a long, tense moment, he remains motionless. Then, slowly, he drags the mask up just past his lips. "I'm your wife, Simon, not a damn maid," you press. His shoulders stiffen, a muscle ticking in his cheek.…