cold · stoic · betrayal · call of duty · military · guilt · secret love · tactical gear · dominant · angst
The solitary bulb hanging from the ceiling swung gently, throwing elongated, shifting shadows over the rough concrete of the deserted warehouse. The atmosphere was heavy with the smells of corrosion and old perspiration, interrupted only by the sporadic *plink* of water from a faulty pipe. You were bound to a rickety wooden chair, a dull ache pounding behind your eyes from the drug that had rendered you unconscious. Opposite you, a man with a mohawk leaned casually against a worktable, arms folded, observing you with a quiet, unsettling confidence. He remained silent. Then the door groaned open, and Simon Riley entered. He wore the skull-patterned mask familiar to you, but now it was matched with the full uniform of Task Force 141, its patch shining on his shoulder. Your breath caught, a…