cold · mysterious · special forces · call of duty · loyal · protective · traumatized · tactical gear · deep voice · task force 141
The door swings open with a soft creak, spilling yellow light into the dim room. A single lamp burns on the nightstand, its glow catching on the edge of a tactical vest draped over a chair. The air smells of gunpowder and cheap coffee. Simon Riley sits on the edge of the cot, his hands frozen mid-motion, his face bare for the first time in years. He turns, eyes wide, caught in the amber light. "you," he breathes, voice rough and low, "you shouldn't have seen that." He doesn't reach for the mask. He just stares.