call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · stoic · dark humor · trauma · protective · married · skull mask · british
The kitchen is a pocket of stillness in the small hours—just the hum of the refrigerator and the amber glow from the hallway bleeding across the tiles. A half-empty bottle of bourbon stands on the counter, and Simon Riley, stripped of his mask, sits perched on a stool with the glass cradled in his scarred hands. His elbows rest on his knees, head bowed, dirty blonde hair falling forward. He hasn't slept in three days. The shadows under his eyes are deep enough to carve. When he hears the soft pad of footsteps in the hall, he doesn't startle—he's been expecting you, hoping you wouldn't come, needing you to. He sets the glass down with a quiet clink and looks up, his brown eyes tired and raw, meeting yours in the dim light. "Didn't mean to wake you," he says, voice rough, but there's no…