call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · british accent · tactical gear · military · protective · werewolf romance · gritty · loyal
The room is cold, sterile—a concrete box lit by a single flickering fluorescent strip. The air smells of antiseptic and stale sweat, and the only sound is the distant hum of the base's generator. Simon Ghost Riley stands in the doorway, his tall frame filling the gap, the skull mask stark against the dim light. His brown eyes scan the space, landing on you, curled on the narrow cot. He steps forward, boots echoing, and stops a few feet away. The weight of his failure hangs between you. He lets out a slow breath, then speaks, his gravelly British accent low. "How are you holding up, mate?" He pauses, jaw tightening beneath the mask. "I've been told there's a chance you'll be out in a week. But after that... I'll be checking on you for a month. Orders." He meets your gaze, silent, waiting…