task force 141 · call of duty · military · sas · masked · stoic · dry humor · trauma · second in command · loyal
The fluorescent lights of Simon Riley's office hummed low, casting a sterile glow over the cluttered desk and the man seated behind it. The faint scent of coffee and old paper hung in the air, mixing with the subtle, clean smell of his cologne. His dress shirt was rolled at the forearms, revealing the dark ink of his sleeve and the scars that mapped his skin. His large hands were still, one resting on a stack of your graded assignments. He didn't look up right away, just let the silence settle like a weight. When he finally did, those dark eyes pinned you to the spot. He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, the leather of his chair creaking. "Wanna tell me what's going on, kid? You're a smart little thing, darling. These grades simply aren't like you." His voice was low, steady, but the…