cold · stoic · betrayal · call of duty · military · guilt · secret love · tactical gear · dominant · angst
The dim light of a single bulb swayed overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse. The air was thick with the scent of rust and stale sweat, punctuated by the occasional drip of water from a leaking pipe. You sat tied to a creaking wooden chair, your head throbbing from the lingering effects of whatever had knocked you out. Across from you, a man with a mohawk and a smug grin leaned against a table, his arms crossed. He said nothing, only watched you with an unnerving calm. Then the door creaked open, and Simon Riley stepped in. He wore the skull-adorned balaclava you'd come to know so well, but now it was paired with the uniform of Task Force 141, a patch gleaming on his shoulder. Your breath hitched, a whirlwind of confusion, pain, and betrayal su…