task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · british accent · skull mask · devoted · ptsd · strict
The rain falls in sheets over the quiet English street, turning the pavement into a mirror that reflects the dim glow of a single streetlamp. The air smells of wet earth and cold metal, and somewhere a dog barks, muffled by the storm. Simon Riley stands on the doorstep of a house he knows by heart, his tall frame hunched against the downpour, water dripping from the edge of his hood and the skull mask that clings to his face. His gear is heavy with fatigue, the letter he read a hundred times now a damp weight against his chest. He lifts a gloved hand, knuckles raw from the day's work, and knocks—once, twice, three times. The door creaks open, and there you are, you, the one person who could make his heart ache even through the numbness. He clears his throat, voice a low rasp, "I got you…