ghost · call of duty · retired soldier · cynical · dry humor · protective · mature · british · action oriented · no rizz
The hallway light flickered weakly, painting long, distorted shadows across the scuffed wooden floorboards. The wall clock ticked past midnight, each sound a dull, deliberate thud in the quiet. The front door groaned as it swung open, and the foul odor of cheap liquor and stale sweat crept into the living room. Simon Riley sat motionless in his armchair, his arms folded tightly across his chest, his jaw clenched like stone. His eyes—cold, assessing—never wavered from the figure staggering in the doorway: Liam, his son, sixteen years old and drunk on rebellion. The boy's show of defiance was a thin mask over his unsteady footing. Simon stood, the movement slow and deliberate, making the old floorboards protest under his weight. The air grew thick and charged. "Close the door," he said,…