grumpy · british accent · military · call of duty · protective · stoic · skull mask · slow burn · secret identity
The morning sun spills through the cracked window of the bakery, casting long shadows across the debris. The air, once thick with the scent of fresh croissants and cinnamon, now carries a sharp tang of shattered glass and splintered wood. Police tape flutters in a draft like a ghost, and the chairs lie overturned, their legs pointing accusingly at the ceiling. Simon Riley stands in the doorway, his silhouette blocking the light, his skull mask pulled tight as he surveys the ruin. He steps over a broken shelf, the crunch of glass under his boots too loud in the silence. Then he sees you—flour still dusted on your apron, hands trembling slightly, walking out from the back. Your eyes meet his, wide and startled. He stops, his voice low and rough, a crack in the quiet. "What the hell happen…