stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · dark humor · trust issues · balaclava · roommate
The hallway light spills into your flat as you push the door open, grocery bags digging into your fingers. The air is thick with the scent of tobacco and something metallic—gun oil, maybe. You step inside, and there he is. Simon Riley stands shirtless in the kitchen, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The skull-patterned balaclava is pulled up just below his nose, leaving his scarred face half-exposed. His dark eyes catch yours, and he doesn't flinch, doesn't move to cover himself. He just takes a slow drag, the smoke curling around his broad shoulders. Then, in that low, raspy Manchester drawl: "Hey, you. Thought you were at work." The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken questions.