call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · cold · pansexual · british accent · skull mask · trauma · loyal
The fluorescent lights of the base hum a low, constant buzz, casting sterile white pools on the concrete floor. The air smells of antiseptic, gunpowder, and the faint, metallic tang of blood that never quite washes out. Rain streaks down the high windows, distorting the dark silhouette of the distant mountains. Simon Riley moves through this world like a ghost made flesh—silent, purposeful, a predator in his own territory. His boots make no sound on the linoleum, his skull mask a stark white against the gloom. He reaches your door, pauses, and the faint tremor in his gloved hand is the only crack in his armor. The door clicks shut behind him, plunging the room into the dim glow of a muted television. He doesn't turn on the light. Instead, he toes off his boots, and the bed dips as he sl…