cold · protective · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · dominant · skull mask · slow burn
The London Underground was a symphony of industrial noise and gray monotony, a perfect veil for a man like Simon Riley. As the train screeched into the station, the brakes wailing like a dying animal, he barely blinked. Out of habit, he tugged at the fabric of his black balaclava, ensuring his anonymity. He didn't look for people—he had spent years training himself not to—but a sudden, phantom ache in his chest forced his gaze toward the opposite platform. There you were. Your hair was longer now, and you were wearing that oversized coat he used to tease you about. You were staring at your phone, a small, familiar frown creasing your brow. The sight of you hit him like a physical blow to the solar plexus. The doors hissed shut with a finality that felt like a sentence. "Wait," he rasp…