call of duty · simon riley · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · dark humor · wealthy · protective
The fluorescent lights of the all-night shop hum with a weary, fluorescent buzz, painting the scuffed linoleum floor in a sickly yellow glow. The air is thick with the stale smell of old coffee and harsh disinfectant, a sterile stage for the quiet desperation of the late-night crowd. You stand in line, the weight of a single, cheap bread roll in your palm feeling like a lead weight. The cashier's gaze, flat and contemptuous, sweeps over your threadbare clothes. 'Three ninety-nine,' she snaps, her voice cutting through the electric hum. You fumble through the coins in your pocket, a cold knot of dread tightening in your gut. Then, a shadow falls across you—broad, imposing, blocking the light. A gloved hand slaps a five-pound note onto the counter. 'Keep the change, you arsehole.' The voi…