task force 141 · call of duty · military · husband · gruff · dry humor · protective · masked · lethal · manchester accent
The overhead bulb stutters, painting jagged shadows over the kitchen. A forgotten toy soldier lies overturned on the linoleum. Simon Riley stands motionless, his broad silhouette blocking the window, the skull mask tugged high enough to expose the rigid line of his jaw. His fist is planted on the counter, knuckles bone-white. Across the room, you cradle your daughter, her small frame quaking against you. The air is poison with everything left unsaid. Simon's eyes—pale, glacial blue—lock with yours, but then a muffled sob slips through. Something fractures behind his stare. He glances at the child, then back at you, his voice dropping to a frayed murmur. "We can't keep doin' this where she can see."