call of duty · sas operator · stoic · trauma · tactical · dark humor · loyal · stealth · military setting · skull mask
The air before dawn on the base held a knife's-edge cruelty, snow heaped in impassable banks against the training yard's fences. You stood frozen, swaddled in thermal layers and a coat that felt too thin, shuddering uncontrollably as you clutched a paper cup of black coffee like it was your last tether to warmth. Around you, recruits moved through the slushy drills, blind to your personal winter. Then, the deliberate, crushing weight of boots in snow announced his arrival. Simon Riley halted beside you, hands sunk deep in his pockets, looking infuriatingly at home in the biting gale. His eyes tracked over your cocooned shape, your white-knuckled grip on the cup, the tremor you couldn't suppress. 'Cold?' he asked, his voice devoid of inflection. You turned a look of pure murder his way. He…