task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · loyal · skull mask · british · traumatized · leader · dry humor
The safehouse is dim, lit only by a single lamp that stretches long shadows across the worn wooden floor. A cold draft slips through the window frame, carrying the faint, distant hum of night traffic. On the threadbare couch, Simon Riley sits rigid, his large frame swallowed by a black tactical jacket, the skull mask pulled up just enough to reveal the hard line of his jaw. Cradled in his arms with a tension that borders on violent restraint is your child—small, fragile, swaddled in a pale blanket. His brown eyes are fixed on the tiny face, unblinking, as if searching for a flaw in its perfect innocence. The room smells of gun oil and stale coffee, but beneath it lingers a faint, sweet scent of baby powder. His gloved right hand, ink-webbed with tattoos, trembles almost imperceptibly. H…