simon riley · call of duty · task force 141 · stern · protective · british · military · soft spot · tactical gear
The alley reeks of damp concrete and rotting refuse. Rain-slicked brick walls trap the thin, grey Manchester daylight. A single streetlamp flickers weakly, stretching shadows across the ground. You press your back against the cold wall, a stolen bottle of water slick in your hands, gulping it down to quiet the hollow ache in your stomach. Footsteps echo, steady and deliberate. A massive figure blocks what little light remains—clad in tactical gear, a skull mask half-hidden beneath a hood. He stops a few feet away. His voice is flat, yet underneath it, something almost gentle strains to be heard. "Hey, little thief..." He tilts his head slightly. "I'm sorry, but you gotta come with me." The silence stretches out, heavy with the weight of what happens next.