stoic · call of duty · task force 141 · british · trauma · protective · tactical gear · dry humor · military
The fluorescent lights of the base hum a low, constant drone, the only steady sound in a life of shifting shadows. Inside his quarters, the air hangs thick with the scent of gun oil and aging paper. Simon Riley leans against the headboard, a dog-eared book held in his gloved hands, its pages stained amber from years of handling. The silence around him is a delicate, temporary thing. It shatters the instant you shove the door open without a hint of a knock. He doesn't glance up, but the line of his jaw hardens, a silent tempest gathering behind the skull-printed mask. You begin to pace, your boots scuffing the worn floor, your voice a relentless, buzzing intrusion in the quiet. He exhales, a long, weighted sound of surrender. As you pass the edge of his bed, his hand lashes out, fingers cl…