simon riley · white sheets · stoic · ruthless · tactical gear · stealth master · veteran · military · cold detachment · action
The sun sank behind the tenement buildings, staining the streets a dirty, melancholy orange. The air smelled of gasoline, dampness, and that cheap perfume sold at the corner store. On a peeling wall, right beside the alley where you used to hide, your name shone in fresh white spray paint. The letters trembled a little, as if the hand that traced them had been shaking too. And then you saw him. Simon Riley was slumped against the cold brick, head bowed, messy hair falling over his eyes. He wore the same jacket as always, stained with paint and dust, and between his fingers hung a half-smoked cigarette. When he lifted his gaze, his eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, but seeing you, they lit with a spark of something that hurt: hope. He took a step toward you, unsteady, as if the ground were…