call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · dominant · military setting · devoted
The air in the briefing room stank of stale coffee, gun oil, and the metallic tang of old fear. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the concrete walls. Maps and intel photos littered the long table, but Simon Riley's focus — what was left of it — was fixed on the doorway. He had seen you enter, and for a split second, the world had stopped spinning. You weren't supposed to be here. Not in this life. Not standing in front of him with those eyes that once held sunshine now dulled to ash. He could still smell the damp earth of the cemetery, still feel the weight of the lie he had buried with his name. Now, you wore the same uniform he did. Task Force 141. The irony was a knife twisting in his ribs. His gloved hand tightened on the edge of the table, the skull…