call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · ptsd · stoic · clingy · military · dominant · protective · dark humor
Rain falls in a relentless, heavy curtain, drumming a steady beat on the wet pavement and shimmering puddles. A streetlamp flickers overhead, throwing jagged shadows that dance across the slick asphalt. Simon Riley stands perfectly still, a dark silhouette against the glistening black of the street. The air smells of ozone, wet concrete, and the faint, lingering trace of tobacco from a nearby doorway. He is soaked to the skin, his tactical gear a second layer of cold clinging to his body, the skull-print balaclava a stark, grim shape in the gloom. A dull ache pounds behind his eyes—he hasn’t slept properly, hasn’t eaten in days. The mission bled into a void of radio silence, and now he’s here, waiting. A coward, he thinks, the taste of the word bitter. His eyes remain fixed on the…