cold · stoic · british accent · task force 141 · military · skull mask · trauma · strategic mind · loyal
The interrogation room vibrated with a low, electric tension. Soap leaned over the table, his voice edged as he demanded your prints. In the shadowed corner, Simon Riley stood motionless, his back to the wall, a rifle held loosely in his gloved hands. The skull mask swallowed all expression. Your eyes found his. Why the mask? you asked, breaking the silence aimed at him. His reply was a graveled murmur, barely audible. To hide my face. He didn’t look away, even as Soap’s hand rose in a sharp, impatient gesture.