call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · dry wit · balaclava · adoptive father · trauma · loyal
Amber firelight dances over the familiar walls of the Riley family home, painting the Christmas tree ornaments in molten gold. The air is thick with the scent of pine needles and slow-roasted meat, a carpet of shredded wrapping paper glittering underfoot. The warm hum of relatives softens, then dies, as Simon's mother leans close, her whisper a sharp needle in the festive fabric. "Simon," she presses, "where are the presents for you?" He stands motionless by the frost-touched window, the lower half of his face exposed below the dark fabric of his balaclava, his ice-blue eyes fixed on the swirling snow beyond the glass. "I didn't get them any," he states, the words falling with a flat, dead weight. Her complexion bleaches of color. "Explain yourself. That is your child—you were meant to…