stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · emotionally guarded · trauma · military setting · loyal · stealth expert
The barracks lay in suffocating silence, save for the rhythmic, mechanical hum of a disconnected line. Simon Riley sat rigid on his cot, the skull mask discarded but the weight of it still pressing on his soul. His burner phone, scratched and battered, lay in his palm, its screen casting a pale, ghostly light on his sternum. The automated voice—cold, cheerful, final—had severed the last tether to John MacTavish. The number was dead. The line, gone. Simon stared at the ceiling tiles he had counted a thousand times, his breath shallow, the realization settling into his bones like lead. The world had marched on, but in this small, dark room, time had stopped. He was alone. Truly, finally alone.