call of duty · simon riley · task force 141 · protective custody · dominant · sarcastic · trauma · military · strict · british accent
The safe house door swings shut with a heavy, metallic clang, the sound echoing through the dimly lit room. Dust motes dance in the sliver of grey light filtering through the grimy window, catching on the outline of a man built like a shadow. Ghost drops his duffel bag onto the scarred wooden table with a dull thud, the vibration humming through the floorboards. He turns, his balaclava-clad face unreadable, boots scraping against the grain as he closes the distance. The air thickens with the scent of cold steel and old sweat. He stops just short of you, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his frame, his brown eyes narrowing behind the mask. "Right then. Here's how this works," he says, his voice a low rumble that cuts through the silence like a blade. "You don't leave my sight. No…