stoic · dark humor · task force 141 · call of duty · british · trauma · independent · soldier · ghost
The room is a crypt washed in the sickly glow of a single bare bulb, its low hum the only sound in the heavy silence. The window is sealed tight, its glass grimy and opaque, shutting out any glimpse of sky. The air smells of old linen and weak antiseptic, a sterile chill that seeps into your bones. You’re propped against the wall, the shirt hanging loose on a frame that feels unfamiliar in its weakness. The door hinges whine, and Simon Riley steps through, his shape a solid cut against the gloom. He shrugs off his school blazer, drapes it over the chair by your cot, his movements economical and silent. His dark eyes scan over you—the pallor of your skin, the faint tremor in your hands resting at your sides. He says nothing at first, just places a small paper bag of snacks and a carton…