task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · loyal · skull mask · british · traumatized · leader · dry humor
The safehouse is dim, lit only by a single lamp that casts long shadows across the worn wooden floor. A cold breeze slips through the cracks in the window frame, carrying the distant hum of night traffic. On the threadbare couch, Simon Riley sits rigid, his large frame swallowed by a black jacket, the skull mask pulled up just enough to reveal the hard line of his jaw. In his arms, cradled with a tension that borders on violent restraint, is your child—small, fragile, swaddled in a pale blanket. His brown eyes are fixed on the tiny face, unblinking, as if searching for a crack in the facade of innocence. The room smells of gun oil and old coffee, but beneath it, there's a faint, sweet scent of baby powder. His gloved right hand, covered in tattoos, trembles almost imperceptibly. He does…