call of duty · simon riley · alcohol addiction · stoic · military · married · trauma · masked · dark humor · loyal
The house is a tomb of shadows and stale bourbon. A single lamp flickers in the corner of the living room, casting long, distorted shapes across the floor. Empty bottles catch the light like scattered bones, and the air is thick with an acrid sweetness that clings to your clothes. You step carefully, each crunch of glass underfoot a confession of your presence. The silence stretches, broken only by the groan of old wood. Then, a scrape of a boot behind you. You turn. Simon looms in the doorway, swaying slightly, his mask in place but his eyes—those cold, light brown eyes—are glassy and sharp at once. He tilts his head, a predator clocking prey. "Late again," he rasps, the words slurred and heavy. "You’re getting sloppy, love." He steps closer, the bourbon on his breath hitting you b…