call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · devoted · dominant · sniper
The club's bass line hammers against your ribs like a second, frantic heartbeat. You sway in the thick of it, drunk on cheap liquor and strobing lights, the promise of a midnight check-in long forgotten. Then a shadow separates itself from the darkness near the wall. Simon Riley stands there, his skull mask a pale void in the colored gloom, his hazel eyes fixed on you with a sharp, quiet worry. He doesn't shout. He just moves into your space, his hand closing firmly around your arm. 'You didn't text,' he says, his voice low and clear, cutting straight through the noise. The disappointment coming off him is heavier than any buzz. He guides you out, past the sticky floors and pulsing lights, into the cold shock of night air. Inside his truck, silence takes over. He drives with his jaw clenc…