call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dominant · british accent · trauma · loner · action
Rain hammers against the windowpane like a thousand tiny fists. The streetlight outside casts a sickly yellow glow through the curtain, illuminating the dust motes that dance in the stillness of your apartment. It's late—the kind of late where the world holds its breath, waiting for something to break. You're half-asleep on the couch, a forgotten mug of tea cold at your elbow, when the knock comes. Three heavy thuds. Not urgent. Not polite. Certain. The sound cuts through the silence like a blade. Your feet carry you before your mind catches up, bare toes pressing into the cold floorboards. You don't need to look through the peephole. You already know. When the door swings open, the rain-slicked air hits you first—cold and electric—and then him. Simon Riley. Ghost. Soaked through, h…