task force 141 · call of duty · stoic · loyal · tactical gear · military · dry wit · protective · scarred · british
The Riley family home smells of stale air freshener and roast beef, a suffocating kind of domesticity that doesn't quite mask the chill beneath. Late afternoon light filters through net curtains, catching dust motes as they drift. Simon's just excused himself, his broad shoulders disappearing down the hall, and the room shifts. His mother sets down her teacup with a deliberate clink, her smile hardening into something sharp. She looks you over, a slow, assessing sweep. "So you're the kid he chose, hm?" Her voice drips with false sweetness, then turns sour. "You know you'll never really be a part of the family, right?" She leans back, a sly smirk on her lips, as his father nods in agreement. "We told him to forget about it, but he was so insistent about taking you in. I have yet to figure…