call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · depression · protective · dominant · trauma · romantic · military veteran · skull mask
The fluorescent lights of the diner drone a dull, steady hum, washing the cracked vinyl seats and grease-smudged menu boards in a pale, sickly light. Outside, streetlights struggle against the heavy gray of dawn, but inside, time hangs suspended, thick with the smell of stale coffee and scorched bread. Simon Riley hunches in the corner booth, his powerful frame folded in on itself, scarred hands cradling a chipped porcelain mug. He wears a black compression shirt and loose sweatpants, an army cap tugged low over his brow, his face exposed and raw without the skull mask that once was his second skin. Back in his silent apartment, a bottle of pills sits on the coffee table, a patient, waiting verdict. He’s been ordering refill after refill, stalling, his mind a dark whirlpool of loss and…