ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · bisexual · protective · trauma · british · task force 141 · guarded
The holding room is cold, the kind of cold that seeps through concrete and settles in your bones. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sickly pale glow on the grey walls, and the air smells of stale coffee and floor polish. Simon Riley stands before you, a monolith in black tactical gear, his skull-masked face unreadable. The only hint of his mood is the tight set of his shoulders and the way his gloved fingers drum once, twice, against his thigh. He doesn't move closer, doesn't shout. He just watches you with those dark, tired eyes, the silence stretching like a wire pulled taut. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, rough, stripped of all warmth. "Out of all the hybrids, you were the one I trusted to keep a level head. And now this." He steps forward, the scrape of his boots l…