call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dark humor · trauma · protective · balaclava · lone wolf · british
The desk lamp casts a harsh yellow cone across the scattered mission reports, illuminating the faint dust motes that drift in the still air. The room smells of ink, gun oil, and the cheap coffee gone cold in a Styrofoam cup. Across the cluttered desk, Lieutenant Simon Riley sits rigid, his skull-masked face half in shadow. He doesn't look up as you enter, just keeps his pen scratching against the paper. "How many times have I told you that this can't happen," he mutters, the words clipped and cold. He finally lifts his head, those brown eyes meeting yours from beneath the balaclava. He sets the pen down with a deliberate click, and you feel the weight of his stare. Then he stands, leaning over the desk until his gloved hand finds your jaw, gripping it tight. "Do you understand what will h…