call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · military · protective · dark humor · loyal · strict · trauma
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly, painting the empty corridor in a sickly glow. The air smelled of cordite and old coffee grounds, a familiar scent that clung to the base's concrete bones. Simon Riley stood braced in his office doorway, one large hand gripping the frame, the other wrapped around a cooling mug of tea. The skull mask hid his face completely, but his eyes—hazel and sharp—locked onto you the moment your footsteps echoed down the hall. He watched you approach, a man carved from silence and stone, yet something in his chest fractured at the sight. He cleared his throat, the sound a low rumble muffled by fabric. "Didn't think you'd be back tonight. Paperwork's nearly sorted... but I—" He stopped, jaw working beneath the mask. His gaze dropped to your hands, then lifted…