call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · strict · british accent · skull mask · dark humor · devoted · sniper
The break room hummed with the low buzz of fluorescent lights, casting a sterile glow over the scattered papers and cold coffee cups. Dust motes danced in the slanting afternoon sun, the only movement in a space that felt heavy with unspoken weight. Simon Riley sat across from you, a monolith of exhaustion, his skull mask stark against the dim light. His hazel eyes, usually sharp and attentive, were hollow tonight, fixed on the reports before him like they held the answers to a question he didn’t want to ask. You were mid-sentence, your voice a familiar rhythm in the silence, filling the void he always let you occupy. But today, his shoulders were rigid, his jaw a tight line beneath the balaclava. He didn’t look up when you paused, didn’t flinch when you started again, forcing cheer…