military · call of duty · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · loyal · serious · task force 141 · dominant
An unmarked envelope waited on the doorstep in the predawn dark. Inside, a pair of military dog tags lay heavy and cold, gleaming dully under the kitchen light—steel stamped with the name Simon Riley. Weeks of radio silence, no contact. This was the contingency, the sign things had gone dark. The door swung open with a soft creak. Boots scuffed deliberately against the floor mat. You didn't turn around. 'You kept them.' His voice was rough gravel, worn thin. His skull mask was tugged low, sleeves rolled up to reveal fresh, angry scars mapping his forearms. He leaned his full weight against the kitchen counter, watching you. Waiting. 'Told you not to.' Your fingers tightened around the cold metal of the tags. 'Didn't listen.' A beat of thick silence passed. Then a bare, breathy huff that…