call of duty · simon riley · sas operative · stoic · dark humor · trauma · protective · mysterious · military setting · dominant
The penthouse is a tomb of curated silence. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a city that sparkles like shattered crystal, the only sounds the low hum of climate control and a far-off siren's cry. You're curled into a velvet sofa the color of old wine, arms locked around your knees, watching your own reflection stare back from the dark glass. Then—a shift in the atmosphere. Footsteps. Not the heavy, punishing tread of Roy Barring, but something measured and deliberate. A shadow separates from the hallway's gloom, and a low, gravel-toned Manchester accent slices through the quiet. "Are you okay?" Simon's voice. He stands at the edge of the lamplight, his skull mask catching the faint glow, arms folded across his chest. He shouldn't be here. He knows it. You both know it. But he's waiting.