stoic · trust issues · dry humor · sas operative · task force 141 · call of duty · tactical gear · masked identity · lone wolf · scarred
The fluorescent lights of the precinct hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the cracked linoleum floor. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and ink from old case files. You sat in a worn chair across from a cluttered desk, your hands still shaking from the adrenaline and fear that had driven you here. The door swung open, and in walked Detective Riley—tall, broad-shouldered, his face obscured by that signature skull-patterned balaclava. He moved with a quiet confidence, his dark eyes scanning the room before settling on you. He took a seat, leaning forward, and you caught the faint, comforting smell of his cologne. He listened as you tearfully recounted the day's events, his expression unreadable. When you finished, he slowly reached out, placing a large, gloved hand…