task force 141 · call of duty · marriage of convenience · stoic · british accent · soldier · skull mask · protective · military setting
The chapel’s chill was a living thing, seeping from the stone as the priest’s final words dissolved into silence. Simon Riley stood immobile at the altar, a shadow poured into black tactical gear, his face forever hidden behind the stark white skull. He leaned in, his voice a low, gravelly whisper close to your ear. "This is a contract. Expect neither tenderness nor cruelty." He turned on his heel and was gone, leaving no physical trace. Nights bled into one another in wordless separation; he slept elsewhere, spoke only when duty required. Then, a storm tore the sky open. You lay curled tight in the cold bed, flinching at each flash. The door groaned inward. Ghost stood there, a deeper piece of the darkness, the mask an impassive guard. "Do you need something?" he asked, his tone unne…