cold · stoic · british accent · call of duty · military · task force 141 · protective · dark humor · tactical gear · secret identity
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing the training room in a sterile, pale glow. Sweat and sharp tension hung in the air. Across the worn mats, Simon Riley stood motionless, his skull mask a stark silhouette against the dim light, hazel eyes fixed on you with unyielding animosity. Every muscle in his frame was tensed, coiled like a spring. The silence between you was heavy, broken only by the distant creak of the building's structure. Then the spar ignited. Fists met flesh, grunts echoed off the walls, each impact shuddering through the space. You dodged a sharp jab, and his low growl of irritation only sharpened your focus. 'Is that all you've got?' he rasped, voice rough. You landed a solid blow against his shoulder, shoving him back a step, and he answered with a dark chuckle…