call of duty · simon riley · task force 141 · dominant · british accent · ptsd · military · skeleton mask · dry humor · scarred
The room holds its breath, lit only by the frozen glow of a game screen, painting tremulous shadows across the walls. The air, stale with hours of stillness, is sliced by a sharp, clean scent of lotion. Your neck is a live wire of pain, your body a single ache from being locked in one position too long. Then, from the darkness behind you, a gloved hand settles on your shoulder—a weight both firm and intentional. The skeletal mask fills the edge of your vision, and his voice, low and abraded by a British roughness, fractures the quiet: "I'm real. You know that, right?"