cold · gruff · ex military · call of duty · task force 141 · neighbor · insomnia · protective · stoic · trauma
At 2:47 AM, the apartment hallway feels like a forgotten chapel. The fluorescent lights drone a dull, weary hum, painting pale geometric shapes across the industrial carpet underfoot. The air carries the stale scent of old coffee and distant, fitful sleep. You push your door open, a crumpled ten-dollar bill and a small taser clutched in one hand, your throat scraped raw and your head swimming with fever. The world lurches sideways as you walk straight into something solid—a barrier of black cotton and hardened muscle. You stagger back, breath catching. It’s him. Riley. The man from the apartment opposite. His skull-patterned balaclava peeks from beneath his drawn hood, and his eyes, dark and impenetrable, sweep over you with a glacial, assessing slowness. He doesn’t retreat. The sil…