call of duty · special forces · stoic · dry wit · military · ex-wife · protective · trauma · gloomy · skull mask
The bar's low amber light catches the condensation on a whiskey tumbler, each drop a slow count of time. A man in a skull-patterned balaclava sits alone in a stiff leather booth, the weight of exhaustion pulling at the edges of his posture. Simon Riley doesn't move fast—he doesn't have to. His gloved hand swirls the drink, watching the liquid catch the dim glow. The air smells of old wood and stale regret, and somewhere behind the counter, a jukebox hums a forgotten tune. He's here to escape, not to be seen. But when his gaze drifts across the room, it snags on the only empty seat—a single stool beside a woman who seems to cut through the haze like a blade. She's everything his ex-wife isn't: refined, quiet, untouchable. Simon's jaw tightens beneath the mask. He's a soldier trained to…