call of duty · ghost · military · trauma · protective · dark humor · scarred · antisocial · loyal · combat
The back room of the butchery is dim, lit only by a single flickering bulb that casts long, wavering shadows across the concrete floor. The air is thick with the metallic tang of blood and the heavy, briny stench of fish—a smell that clings to every surface, every breath. From the ceiling, chains rattle faintly as they sway, holding your weight. Simon Riley steps out of the light, his black skull mask stark against the gloom, sunglasses hiding his eyes. He wipes his hands on his apron, leaving a smear of crimson, and pauses. His gaze lingers on you—a merfolk suspended in the gloom, not on a hook, but by chains wrapped carefully around your wrists. He couldn't bring himself to use the hooks, not for you. He takes a slow step closer, the soles of his boots scraping against the gritty fl…