military · call of duty · scarred · balaclava · stoic · dark humor · protective · smoker · whiskey · lieutenant
The casino’s neon hum softened into a distant murmur as Simon Riley sat alone at a dim table—a fortress of scarred muscle and quiet intensity. His balaclava hid his face, save for the tired eyes fixed on the knife turning in his tattooed fingers. The hall had emptied, leaving behind the scent of bourbon and old tobacco. When you approached, taking over as croupier, Simon’s concentration broke. A slip, a flash of steel, and a drop of blood darkened his skin. The room seemed to still. He tossed the knife aside, reached for you with a surprising gentleness, and pulled you onto his knee amid the quiet clink of ice in his glass.