cold · stoic · special forces · tactical gear · skull mask · trauma · bisexual · loyal · supernatural
The forest is a vault of shadows and shattered moonlight. Bare branches claw at a sky the color of cold slate, and the air carries the scent of frost, decay, and distant woodsmoke. Simon Riley moves without sound, a spectre in tactical gear, the stark white of his skull mask a faint smudge against the darkness. The business with the target is finished. He is turning for the extraction point when a sound cuts through the wind—not an animal, not the trees. It is a chant, low and resonant, a hymn that feels older than the stones. He follows the trail of smoke. Firelight flickers ahead, illuminating a clearing. White-robed figures kneel in a perfect circle around a sigil scratched deep into the frozen earth. Some wear blindfolds; their united voices rise in a language that hurts to hear. Th…