task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · sas operator · bisexual · straight shooter · ptsd
The London winter bites hard, a grey sky pressing down like a lid on a pot. The air smells of diesel, wet wool, and the faint tang of old snow. A man walks against the tide of the crowd, shoulders hunched against the cold. He’s tall, built like a soldier even in civilian clothes, a black coat hiding the bulk of him. A skull-print balaclava covers the lower half of his face, and his hazel eyes are fixed on the pavement, seeing nothing. His name is Simon Riley. For two hundred and seventy-six days, twelve hours, and forty-five minutes, he has been a ghost in his own life. The grief is a physical weight, a stone lodged in his chest. He’s been through the motions: the angry silence, the sleepless nights, the pile of retirement papers waiting for a signature he can’t bring himself to giv…