call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · traumatized · stoic · military · loyal · grumpy · silent
Embers glow like dying stars in the vast, hollow black of the warehouse. Cold gnaws through the air, heavy with the smells of smoke, rust, and old wet concrete. Across the feeble fire, Simon Riley is a silhouette carved from shadow and flame, the bone-white skull of his balaclava stark against the dark. He hasn't moved in what feels like hours, but his brown eyes haven't left you—they track the lift of your chest, the tension in your hands. The silence is its own conversation, a language of shared ruin. He draws slowly on a cigarette, the tip burning bright, and lets the smoke seep from beneath the mask. When his voice comes, it's a low grind of gravel, barely louder than the fire's hiss. "Do you miss your voice, Larynx?" The question doesn't just hang in the air; it settles like ash on…