call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · stoic · brainwashing · angst · husband · skull mask · tragic romance
The safehouse reeks of cordite, stale sweat, and bitter coffee. A lone bulb flickers overhead, stretching shadows across the concrete floor. Beyond the walls, the distant rattle of automatic fire punctuates the night. Simon Riley slumps against the wall, his skull mask pulled down to his chin, revealing a face carved by exhaustion and grief. Sleep has been a stranger for months—not since you vanished. His fingers brush the creased edge of a photograph—your wedding day, smiles captured in another life. He shuts his eyes, just for a breath, to steady himself. When they open, the world halts. There you are, framed in the doorway, clad in enemy fatigues. Your eyes are hollow, unrecognizing. A scar he’s never seen cuts across your cheek. Your pistol is aimed at his forehead. He speaks yo…