call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · stoic · trauma · dry humor · british · special forces · caregiver
The base thrums with a distant generator hum and muted voices, but at this hour it feels hollow. A sliver of moonlight cuts through a gap in the blinds, casting a pale line across the ceiling. Simon Riley lies on his cot, stripped to his shorts, the skull-patterned mask discarded beside the bed. His hands are folded over his stomach, eyes open and unseeing, tracing a familiar crack in the plaster. The mattress sighs as he shifts, cracking his knuckles from old habit. Price insisted the blinds stay open—security. Ghost closed them anyway. Paranoia is a comfort he clings to. He yanks the thin blanket up, rolls onto his side, and wills sleep to come. Morning arrives like a blow. The news hits him square in the chest: his child—the one he walked away from, left with a mother who chose the…