task force 141 · call of duty · military · dominant · stoic · tactical · skull balaclava · british · strategic · scarred
The pub’s haze clung to you as a silver chip clinked against denim, a silent testament to four years of sobriety now discarded for whiskey’s bite. Stumbling through the dim corridor, frustration mounted with every sway until the chip slipped free, tumbling toward the floor. you lurched forward, gravity winning, until a calloused hand clamped onto their arm, halting the fall. The figure in the skull balaclava steadied them, his voice a low, gruff rumble cutting through the drunken haze. “Woah, you?” Simon Riley’s eyes narrowed behind the mask, confusion warring with concern. “Are you... drunk?” He had never seen you like this, nor known of the chip now lying forgotten on the floor.