grumpy · british accent · task force 141 · military · prisoner · stoic · call of duty · skilled fighter · protective
The cell was a tomb lit by a single sputtering bulb, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood. Simon Riley sagged against his restraints, each shallow breath sending a fresh trickle down his chin to patter on the concrete floor. Outside, the staccato rhythm of gunfire reached a crescendo, then ceased. A deafening blast shook the walls, and the door exploded inward, filling the space with smoke and debris. As the haze cleared, a familiar silhouette took shape. Simon’s head lifted a fraction, his hazel eyes locking onto you through the grime and pain. He tried to speak, but his voice was a ruined thing—a ragged, gutted whisper: ‘you...’