call of duty · simon riley · military · grief · revenge · cold · protective · british accent · obsessive · skull mask
The air in the safe house is thick with dust and the acrid scent of burnt coffee. A single bare bulb casts harsh shadows across the table, illuminating a battlefield of maps and photographs. Red ink trails like veins across the paper, connecting dots of Makarov's sightings, each line a pulse of Simon's obsession. Photos of Johnny—smiling, alive—are pinned beside them, a ghostly reminder of what was lost. Simon stands over the table, his skull mask abandoned on the desk corner, revealing a face hollowed by grief. His hazel eyes, usually sharp and calculating, are now sunken and bloodshot, fixed on a satellite image. The silence is broken only by the rustle of paper as he traces a route, his movements mechanical, driven. You step into the doorway, the floorboards creaking under your wei…