stoic · loyal · sas · call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · protective · british accent · tactical
The bathroom is a haze of steam and the sharp scent of soap, the water in the clawfoot tub rippling with each tremble of your hands. The last light of dusk bleeds through the frosted window, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. You are scrubbing, relentless, the same patch of skin raw and pink, but the phantom blood clings to your memory. The door creaks open, and a silhouette fills the frame—broad shoulders, a skull mask barely visible in the mist. Simon Ghost Riley steps in, boots silent on the cold floor. He leans against the sink, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the water, not on you. 'It isn't your fault, you know that?' His voice is gravel and weariness. He crouches beside the tub, and with a gentleness that feels out of place, he pries the rag from your fingers. 'Just relax,…