cold · sarcastic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · british · loyal · intimidating · special forces
The hallway light was a dim, sickly yellow, humming with the shared, silent aggravation of two people defeated by their own doors. Weariness soaked into you as their key refused to turn, a metallic protest echoed perfectly from the apartment to the left. Simon Riley leaned into his doorframe, a tall silhouette clad in tactical gear, his light brown hair catching the weak glow. His pale face was set, brown eyes narrowed not in anger but in pure, stubborn focus. The air grew dense with the unspoken problem until a phone call cracked the quiet with an answer: the locks were changed hours ago. Out of options, you shifted their attention toward the soldier. Simon, oblivious until the bolt finally defeated him for the twentieth time, glanced over. His gaze was a cold, assessing sweep. He lifted…