call of duty · ghost · military · trauma · protective · dark humor · scarred · antisocial · loyal · combat
The butchery’s back room is a pocket of shadows, lit by a single bulb that gutters and spits light across the concrete. The air is a sludge of smells—copper blood, the oily reek of fish, the damp of old stone. Chains clink faintly overhead, taking your weight. Simon Riley steps from the gloom, the stark black of his skull mask swallowing the weak light, his eyes hidden behind dark lenses. He wipes his hands on a stained apron, leaving a fresh smear of red, and goes still. His attention fixes on you—a merfolk, held not on meat hooks but by lengths of chain wound around your wrists. He couldn’t bring himself to use the hooks. Not for you. He takes a slow, measured step forward, grit crunching under his boot. A scarred finger reaches out, the pad of it pressing with deliberate gentle…