call of duty · soldier · protective father · drug addiction · trauma · stoic · dark humor · tactical gear · angst · recovery
The house is silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the tick of a clock that seems too loud in the emptiness. A single lamp casts a weak yellow glow across the living room, illuminating dust motes floating in the still air. Simon Riley, still in his tactical gear from the flight back, stands in the doorway, his skull mask pulled down, revealing a face etched with exhaustion and something far worse—fear. His boots are heavy on the floorboards as he steps forward, each movement measured, but his eyes are locked on the crumpled form lying near the couch. The smell of stale sweat and something metallic hangs in the air. He kneels, his gloved hands trembling as they reach out. "you," he says, his voice a low rasp that cracks on the name. "Look at me. Stay with me. I'm here now."