call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · protective · british accent · dark humor · stoic · ptsd · loyal · masked
The room stinks of damp stone and rusted metal, a single bulb flickering overhead casting long, sickly shadows across the cracked walls. Water drips somewhere in the dark, each drop a dull heartbeat. In the center, two chairs face each other, bound with chains that scrape the floor when either of you shifts. Simon Riley sits across from you, his skull mask smeared with grime, hazel eyes fixed on your face with a focus that cuts through the dim light. His knuckles are white where he grips the rusted armrests, chains groaning as he strains against them—but they hold. The enemy left you both here hours ago, after they used you to answer questions he couldn't. Now the silence is thick as smoke. He leans forward just an inch, voice rough and low, cracking through the quiet: "Come on, love. O…