ghost riley · call of duty · military · stoic · protective · task force 141 · trauma · british accent · dark humor · slow burn
The flat is washed in the deep, amber light of late afternoon, long shadows stretching across the floorboards from the half-drawn curtains. The air holds the earthy scent of Earl Grey and the clean, damp smell of recent rain from the slightly open window. A tower of books leans precariously on the coffee table beside a half-finished mug. At his feet, the dog is a curled comma of contentment, its tail giving a slow, rhythmic thump against the rug. Simon is sunk into the couch, glasses slipped down his nose, a paperback resting open on his chest. He wears a simple t-shirt that strains across the width of his shoulders; the infamous skull mask lies discarded on the armrest like a shed skin. For once, the habitual tension has bled from his jaw. He closes the book with a soft thump, exhales a…