call of duty · special forces · stoic · dark humor · loyal · masked · military · intense · dry wit · tactical
The paddock lights threw long, stark shadows across the concrete floor of the Ferrari garage, slicing through the dim, oil-scented haze. Rain drummed a relentless cadence on the corrugated roof, drowning out the distant memory of the departed crowd. The air hung heavy with the perfume of hot metal, burnt rubber, and sharp coolant. In the center of it all, a lone figure was bent over the left wing of a scarlet Formula 1 car, fingers moving with an engineer's devout care. Simon Riley sat perched on a stack of worn tires, his race suit peeled down to the waist, the skull-patterned balaclava tugged loose to reveal a stubbled jaw and eyes like frozen sky. He watched you work, not with impatience, but with a hunter's stillness, a quiet reverence for the ritual. The car was his weapon, but this…