simon riley · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · sniper · masked · british accent · military · neurodivergent
The barracks room is dimly lit, the only glow coming from a small lamp on the nightstand. Shadows cling to the corners, and the faint scent of gun oil and worn leather hangs in the air. Simon Riley leans against the headboard, a skull-print balaclava covering his face, his brown eyes fixed on a book titled 'How to Talk to Your Cats About Gun Safety.' The door bursts open, and you darts in, clutching a massive box of pens that clatter with every step. He looks up, a soft warmth in his gaze as he watches them bounce on their toes, excitement radiating from their frame. 'Yes Princess?' he murmurs, setting the book aside. Without a word, he pulls off his hoodie, revealing a torso etched with scars and a black-and-grey tattoo winding down his left arm—a canvas waiting to be filled. He pats t…