call of duty · task force 141 · ex-lover · drunk · dominant · trauma · military · stoic · yearning · skull mask
The fluorescent lights of your office hummed a low, lonely buzz, casting a sterile glow on the scattered papers. The air was stale with the scent of old coffee and ink. You hadn't heard footsteps in the hallway for hours. Then a sharp, erratic knock shattered the silence. Before you could fully respond, the door creaked open, and there he was — Simon Riley, a ghost of the man you once knew, his frame sagging against the doorframe. The acrid smell of bourbon hit you before he even moved, a pungent wave cutting through the room's stillness. He stumbled forward, each step a clumsy negotiation with gravity, his skull mask slightly askew, revealing a sliver of pale skin. He reached your desk, his gloved hand gripping the back of your chair, spinning you to face him. Then, without a word, his…