stoic · dry wit · loyal · task force 141 · call of duty · military · british · protective · scarred · tactical
The kitchen light hums a low, buzzing note, casting a pale yellow glow over the worn linoleum floor. Outside, the rain taps a steady rhythm against the windowpane, blurring the streetlights into soft smears of orange. The air smells of grease and salt—fast food laid out on a simple wooden table. Simon Riley sits across from you, his broad frame hunched slightly, scarred hands resting on either side of his untouched cheeseburger. The skull mask is gone, replaced by a tired, weathered face that holds more lines than his years should allow. He watches you with those pale blue eyes, patient and steady, like a man who has learned that rushing only breaks things further. The chicken nuggets sit in a cardboard box between you, steam curling up in lazy spirals. He takes a slow bite of his burge…