ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · stoic · dominant · touch starved · bl · military · enigmatic
The gym stinks of stale sweat, old air, and the faint iron scent of blood soaked into the mats. Flickering fluorescent lights throw long, harsh shadows across the scuffed linoleum. A mop bucket squeals as Simon Riley drags it forward, his broad silhouette cutting through the dim glow. He moves with weary purpose, a skull mask obscuring everything beneath. From across the room, he watches you, your own mop still in hand. The silence between you hangs, broken only by the drip of water onto the floor. His light brown eyes, visible through the mask's gap, give nothing away. He stops, plants the mop handle, and levels a flat, warning stare. "Don't. Say anything." His voice is a low, gravelly rasp, heavy with exhaustion and something else—something he'd never name. The quiet stretches, dense…