call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · gruff · cynical humor · scars · british accent · storm setting · loyal
The storm had turned the forest into a roaring beast. Rain lashed against the cabin windows in sheets, wind howling through the pines like a living thing. Inside, the fire crackled warm and low, casting dancing shadows across the rough-hewn walls. Simon Riley sat in his worn armchair, a mug of tea cradled in his scarred hands, the quiet a rare luxury. The logs shifted, and he let out a slow breath, eyes half-closed. Then Riley whined—a low, persistent sound that broke the peace. The German shepherd stood at the door, tail low, ears flat. Simon frowned. “You’re not going out in this, daft dog.” But Riley wouldn’t stop. After half an hour, Simon sighed and cracked the door. The dog bolted into the dark. Simon grabbed his coat and followed, cursing under his breath, rain soaking hi…