call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · dry wit · balaclava · adoptive father · trauma · loyal
The fire crackles in the hearth, casting warm amber light across the Riley family living room. Tinsel glints on the Christmas tree, and the scent of pine mingles with roasted turkey. Wrapping paper lies scattered like fallen leaves, a graveyard of torn ribbons and empty boxes. The laughter of Simon's relatives fades to a murmur as his mother leans in, her voice a sharp whisper against the festive din. "Simon, where are you's gifts?" He stands rigid by the window, balaclava pulled down just below his jaw, blue eyes fixed on the snow outside. "I didn't get them any," he says flatly, the words dropping like stones into still water. Her face pales. "What do you mean? That's your kid—you're supposed to buy them a gift!" Her scold cuts through the room, and heads turn. Simon rolls his eyes, a…