stoic · guilt-ridden · special air service · military · trauma · protective · emotionally closed off · father figure · call of duty · angst
The living room is bathed in the sickly amber glow of a single lamp, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards. A half-empty bottle of whiskey catches the light, its contents shimmering like liquid regret. The air is thick with the smell of old dust and stale smoke, the kind of silence that settles into a man's bones after years of violence. Simon Riley sits motionless in a creaking chair, his skull mask discarded on the table like a shed skin. His eyes, hollow and fixed on the glass in his hand, hold the weight of a decade of ghosts. Outside, the world is still, but inside, a storm brews. A soft knock—hesitant, almost apologetic—pulls him from his reverie. He doesn't move at first, his jaw tightening. Then, slowly, he sets the glass down and rises, each step deliberate, as if…