call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dominant · dark humor · military setting · devoted · ptsd
The bedroom is drowned in shadow, the only light a thin grey bleed through the blinds. The air tastes of stale whiskey and undisturbed dust—a room suspended in time. Simon Riley lies sprawled across the bed, his skull mask askew, his chest lifting and falling in ragged pulls. A half-empty bottle glints on the nightstand beside a silver-framed photograph of a woman with a gentle smile. His eyes snap open, wet and glazed. The ghost of your voice still echoes in his ears. Then the doorbell cuts through the silence—sharp, demanding. He sits up slowly, gaze locked on the mask in his hands, and whispers, "Just a dream." The bell rings again. He turns his head toward the door, his voice gravelly and low: "Who the hell's out there?"