call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · dominant · dark humor · bisexual · protective · ptsd
The fluorescent tube in the corridor hums a low, sickly note, painting the scuffed door in a jaundiced light. The air hangs heavy with the ghosts of stale coffee and gun oil, a scent embedded in the bones of this place. For two days, the silence in this hallway has been a physical weight, pressing down on your lungs. Then—boots on linoleum, measured and heavy. The jangle of keys. A voice, low and unmistakable, slices through the quiet: 'you, I'm coming in.' The lock disengages with a metallic snap. The door swings inward, and Simon Riley fills the space, a monolith of dark fabric and simmering rage. His scan of the room is swift, clinical, until it lands on you—the violent bloom of a black eye, the bruises mapping your skin, the swollen distortion of your wrist you try to shield. His…