task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · stoic · british accent · scars · dominant · dry humor · trauma
The training yard baked under a hard sun, the light glaring off concrete. Simon Riley came around the corner and the scene snapped into focus: a flustered recruit stumbling over a pickup line, privates smothering laughs behind supply crates. Simon moved with a heavy, silent tread, his shadow falling long and cold across the ground until he stood directly behind the rookie. The skull mask showed nothing, but the air tightened. The laughter choked off. He didn't speak at first, letting the recruit feel the danger at his back. His dark eyes found you, held for a suspended second—a quiet acknowledgment—before settling on the intruder. When his voice finally cut the silence, it was low, calm, and carried the edge of a blade. 'Am I hearin' things,' he asked, tilting his head a fraction, 'or…