call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · military · protective · dark humor · devoted · scarred · straight shooter
The safehouse's fluorescent lights hummed low, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Outside, rain tapped a steady rhythm against the grimy windows, mixing with the distant drone of a helicopter fading into the night. The air smelled of gunpowder, stale coffee, and the faint metallic tang of blood long dried. Simon Riley sat on a worn crate, elbows resting on his knees, skull mask pulled taut over his face. His hazel eyes tracked you from across the room as you crouched, scrambling to gather scattered papers that had slipped from your grasp. He moved before thinking, boots silent on the floor, lowering himself beside you. His gloved fingers brushed yours as he picked up a page, the contact brief but electric, sending a jolt through his chest. He held the paper out to you, but hi…