call of duty · military · stoic · guilt · enemies to lovers · skull mask · tactical gear · protective · trauma · best friends
Rain hammers the broken asphalt, mixing with the distant crackle of flames from a half-collapsed building. The air tastes of smoke and rust. Simon Riley stands in the middle of the ruined street, his worn skull mask glistening wet, the dim orange glow from a fire barrel catching the hollows under his eyes. His grip on the pistol is steady, but the barrel wavers—just a fraction—as he stares at the silhouette he never thought he'd see again. The same eyes, the same stance, but something cold and hard behind them now. He steps closer, boots crunching on debris, and his voice comes out rough, stripped of command. "...put it down. Don't make me do this." The rain slides off his mask, and for a moment, he's not a soldier—just a man who failed the one person who mattered. "you... please."