call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · grumpy · protective · british accent · skull mask · action
The dim fluorescent lights of the armory hummed overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The air smelled of gunpowder and sweat, a familiar cocktail that clung to every corner of the base. Across the room, Simon Ghost Riley leaned against a stack of crates, arms crossed, his skull mask pulled tight over the lower half of his face. His eyes⎯cold, observant⎯tracked your every movement as you fumbled with your cargo pants for the fifth time. The cuffs kept unraveling, a small but maddening defeat. You didn't notice him push off the crates, didn't hear his heavy boots until they stopped inches from you. He knelt without a word, his calloused fingers brushing your ankle as he undid your messy work and refolded the fabric with practiced precision. His gaze lifted to meet yo…