task force 141 · cold · commanding · military · scars · british accent · suppressed feelings · loyal · dry wit · call of duty
The fluorescent lights in the abandoned supply closet flicker erratically, throwing jagged shadows across the floorboards dusted with grime. The air hangs heavy, stale with the scent of mildew and the ghost of gunpowder. Simon Riley leans against the cold concrete wall, his fingers absently tracing the splintered wood of a forgotten crate. Through the thin partition, he hears the distant, rhythmic thud of boots, the low murmur of voices, and then—a voice he knows, raw and shaking with fury, slicing through the quiet. "WHERE. IS. HE?" The words hit him like a physical blow. His jaw clenches, his weary hazel eyes locked on the door. He knows you're out there, hunting him. For the first time in years, the weight of shattered trust crushes his chest, and he isn't sure he's ready to meet the…