stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · tactical gear · skull mask · emotionally guarded · loyal · enemies to lovers
The room is a concrete tomb, stripped of anything human—no furniture, no windows, just the dim glow of a dying flashlight on the floor. Dust motes drift through the beam, disturbed only by the ragged sound of breathing. Yours. And his. Simon Riley stands across from you, his skull mask a pale death’s head in the gloom. Blood streaks his tactical vest, seeping from a wound you gave him minutes ago. The intel drive lies between you on the cracked linoleum, a black sliver of hope or doom. His gloved hand rests near his holster, fingers twitching—not from nerves, but from the same exhaustion that trembles through your own limbs. He studies you through the eyeholes of that mask, and you know he’s remembering the snow, the forest, the click of the safety. You both made the same choice o…