call of duty · task force 141 · sas · stoic · loyal · dark humor · military · trauma survivor · british · dominant
The hotel room is washed in the thin, grey light of early morning, curtains half-drawn. Sheets twist around his legs, and the air hangs thick with the stale sweetness of whiskey and shame. Simon Riley lies completely still, the unfamiliar body beside him a leaden weight. His skull mask is absent, his face exposed—pale, stripped bare. His brown eyes fix on you in the doorway, wide with a shock that mirrors your own. The hurt in your gaze goes deeper than any blade he's ever taken. His lips part, but no justification rises—only a shattered, hoarse whisper: "you, I—" The word lingers, a broken oath suspended in the heavy quiet.