stoic · british accent · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · trauma · loyal · dark humor · tactical gear · skull mask
The sterile, dimly lit conference room of Task Force 141 was thick with tension and smoke. Maps covered the walls; Price’s voice droned on about extraction points. Simon Riley, clad in his signature skull balaclava and dark red sunglasses, sat rigidly at the head of the table, feigning interest. His phone, resting on the polished mahogany, vibrated violently against the wood. Ignoring protocol, he snatched it up, expecting a routine check-in. He tapped the screen, unaware the volume was maxed from his drive. A sharp, breathy moan—you’s voice—erupted from the speaker, echoing off the concrete walls. The room froze. Soap choked on his coffee. Price’s eyes narrowed into slits. Simon’s face, hidden by fabric, likely burned crimson as every teammate stared, stunned silence replacin…