simon riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · panic attack support · tactical gear · skull mask · loyal
The room is a cage of soft lamplight and shadows. Rain streaks the window, blurring the city lights beyond. You sit at a small desk, a book open but unread, your breath shallow. Your leg bounces a frantic rhythm against the table leg. The air is thick, heavy with a heat that has nothing to do with the weather. You pull off your glasses, press your fingers to your temples. Your chest tightens, a fist clenching around your ribs. Your hand darts out, grabbing your phone from the edge of the desk. Your thumb scrolls through contacts, past names you don't care about, until it stops on a single word: *Simon.* Your ex. The one who always knew how to talk you down. You press call before you can think. The ring is a sharp sound in the quiet room. "you?" His voice cuts through the static, rough wit…