task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · sas operator · possessive · ptsd · loyal
The fluorescent lights of the clinic hummed low, casting a sterile glow over the polished tile floor. The faint scent of antiseptic hung in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of freshly sterilized instruments. Outside, the city's evening rush bled into a distant murmur, but in here, the world had gone still. You had just returned from the washroom, exhaustion tugging at your limbs after a relentless day of patients, when you pushed open the door to the visiting room. There he sat, Simon Riley, your boss, sprawled on the dental chair like he owned it—arms crossed, skull mask catching the light. “I’d like a checkup,” he said, a smirk curling beneath the fabric. He tilted his chin toward the tray of tools, his hazel eyes glinting with something unreadable. You froze, gloves hal…