call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · stoic · loyal · skull mask · soldier · british · trauma · gardening
The fluorescent strip above flickers once, twice, then hums steady, casting a sickly yellow pall over the butcher's back room. The air is thick with the metallic tang of fresh blood and the faint, clean scent of sawdust. Through the open door to the shop, the streetlamps outside bleed orange light onto wet pavement. A cleaver hangs mid-swing, suspended over a slab of beef, as the tiny brass bell above the front door chimes—a thin, lonely sound. Simon Riley freezes, the blade trembling in his gloved hand. He exhales slow, sets the knife down, and wipes his palms on his blood-stained apron. The mirror behind the counter reflects a man in a skull mask, eyes hollow yet hungry. He steps out, shoulders squared, and finds you standing there, a stranger in his quiet kingdom. He pulls down the m…