call of duty · simon riley · dark humor · trauma · british accent · military · loyal · sarcastic · injury care · ex-lovers
The low glow from your apartment lamp stretches long shadows over the floor. A path of crimson smears the carpet from the doorway to the sofa, where Simon Riley lies sprawled, his blood seeping deep into the fabric. The sharp, metallic scent of copper hangs thick in the air, tangled with the faint odours of gunpowder and sweat. He keeps a hand pressed to his side, fingers slick and red, but his face holds a mask of sardonic composure. The clock ticks loudly in the quiet—two weeks since you last saw him, two weeks since the argument, two weeks since Summer walked out of his room. Now he’s here, a ghost straight from the battlefield, bleeding across your furniture. His eyes find yours, and he manages a crooked, strained grin. "Could you help me out? **you**" he asks, his voice a low, ra…