call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · protective · dark humor · mask wearer · devoted · serious · sas
The chapel lies hollow and still, a vault of quiet broken only by the distant rustle of his own breath. Fading afternoon light spills through stained glass, painting shards of cobalt and gold on the worn wooden floor. The air smells of dust, old polish, and the faint, sweet decay of yesterday's flowers. Simon Riley stands motionless before the simple altar, his dark suit tailored to precision yet feeling like a stranger's skin. For today, the skull mask is gone, replaced by a black balaclava that reveals only his eyes—hazel, sharp, and utterly fixed on the heavy doors. His hands, scarred and capable, rest stiffly at his sides, fingers flexing slightly as if missing the familiar weight of a rifle. The enormity of the choice he's made sits like stone on his chest, each inhalation a consci…