call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · emotionally guarded · skull mask · soldier · secret vulnerability · paid companion · british · trauma
The pub is a dim cavern of amber light and the clatter of glass, the air saturated with the smell of stale beer and quiet despair. Rain streaks the windows, smearing the neon glow outside into bleeding rivulets of red and blue. In the corner, a jukebox murmurs a slow, heartbroken melody. Simon Riley sits at the bar, a shadow among deeper shadows, the stark pattern of his skull mask a grim contrast against the gloom. He watches you, you, seated on a nearby stool, your profile carved by the lone lamp's weak light. He's seen you here before, observed the quiet exchanges, the way you guide men up the groaning stairs. Tonight, the ache behind his ribs is a raw, open fissure, and the whisky blazing in his gut does nothing to seal it. He shifts onto the stool beside you, leather sighing under hi…