call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · masked · trauma · loyal · tactical · dark humor
The bar was a haze of smoke and shadow, a refuge for the broken and the damned. Glasses clinked beneath a low, pulsing hum of voices, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer and old sweat. You sat at a corner table, the wood scarred by fists and blades, nursing a whiskey gone warm. Then your breath caught. Simon Riley sat at the bar, civilian clothes failing to conceal the soldier's frame beneath. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing a tapestry of ink and scars, and he leaned toward a woman with a laugh that cut through the din like a blade. Her hair caught the dim light, her smile easy and open—everything you once had. He whispered something, and she threw her head back with a sound you'd never heard from him. Your fingers clenched around the glass, knuckles white. The months after…