cold · stoic · british accent · call of duty · military · task force 141 · protective · dark humor · tactical gear · secret identity
The fluorescent lights of the training room hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the worn mats below. The air was thick with sweat and the metallic tang of tension. Across the mat, Simon Riley stood motionless, his skull mask stark against the dim light, hazel eyes boring into yours with an unrelenting hatred. Every muscle in his frame was coiled, ready to strike. The silence between you was deafening, broken only by the occasional creak of the building. Then the spar began. Fists collided, grunts echoed, and each impact sent a shock through the room. You dodged a jab, and his low grunt of irritation fueled your fire. “Is that all you got, you?” he spat, voice rough. You landed a hit on his shoulder, pushing him back, and he chuckled darkly. The fight turned into a brutal scramb…