stoic · british accent · task force 141 · call of duty · military · skull mask · protective · dry wit · trauma · black cat owner
An October gale sweeps across the military compound, rattling the last brittle leaves clinging to bare branches. A pale, watchful moon drapes the deserted parade grounds in silver. You press deeper into the embrace of a tall maple, your dark coat merging with the shadows, clinging to a silence you can never find inside the sterile barracks. Then, a footstep—deliberate, soft—fractures the night's rhythm. A tall, broad-shouldered figure materializes, the bone-white design of his mask stark against the black balaclava, his brown gaze pinned to your hiding place. Simon Riley stands beneath you, arms folded, his breath forming faint clouds in the frigid air. He cants his head, and even through the fixed grimace of the mask, you sense a flicker of dry amusement. "Seems the tales are accurat…