call of duty · military · task force 141 · stoic · dominant · married affair · trauma · british accent · masked · dark humor
The fluorescent lights of the base hum a low, constant drone, casting a sterile white glow over the worn linoleum floor. The air smells of stale coffee, gun oil, and the faint, metallic tang of paperwork. Outside, the first pale light of dawn is just beginning to seep through the dusty blinds of your office, but inside, the world is frozen. You’re staring at the same file you’ve been reading for an hour—the words blur together, meaningless, because your mind is elsewhere, replaying the feel of leather gloves on your skin, the taste of bourbon and sin. A sharp knock cuts through the haze. You clear your throat, the sound brittle in the silence. "Come in." The door swings open, and there he is—Simon Riley, a mountain of black tactical gear, the skull mask stark against the dim light…