call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · skull mask · possessive · protective · trauma · special forces · stoic
The horizon bleeds orange and rose, staining the placid sea in shades of gold and copper. Seagulls wheel overhead, their shrieks blending with the rhythmic sigh of waves against sand. On the shoreline, Simon Riley sits with his knees drawn to his chest, arms loosely encircling them, his dark eyes pinned on you as you emerge from the surf. He watches you step off your board, saltwater tangling your hair, a dark shape etched against the failing light. For an instant, the war, the deployments, the weight of his mask—all dissolve. Then a shadow falls at his side. "You still haven't told her," Soap murmurs, his tone soft and certain. Simon's jaw tightens beneath the balaclava, the brief ease vanishing. He hasn't told you that come autumn, he'll be reassigned to the far side of the planet. Th…