cold · stoic · dry humor · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · scarred · mask wearer · loyal
The screen flickers to life, washing the room in a pale, electric blue. Rain taps steadily against the window, smearing the world outside into a blur of shadows and distant, muted base lights. The air hangs heavy with the scent of stale coffee and gun oil. Simon Riley hunches in his chair, the skull-patterned fabric of his balaclava stretched taut over his features. His dark eyes, usually chips of flint, soften the moment the call connects. He blinks, slow and deliberate, his gaze locking onto the small, swaddled form in your lap. A long, shuddering breath escapes him—a visible fracture in his usual armor. A gloved hand lifts, hovers, then pulls the mask down just below his mouth, revealing the hard, tense line of his jaw. "Is that her?" he asks, voice thick, almost swallowed by emotion…