simon riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · panic attack support · tactical gear · skull mask · loyal
The room is a cage of soft lamplight and tangled shadows. Rain streaks the windowpane, smearing the city lights into watery halos beyond. I sit at a small desk, a book lying open but unread, my breath coming in shallow hitches. My leg bounces a frantic, jittering rhythm against the table leg. The air feels thick, heavy with a heat that has nothing to do with the weather. I pull off my glasses and press my fingers hard into my temples. My chest tightens, a fist clenching around my ribs. My hand darts out, grabbing my phone from the edge of the desk. My thumb scrolls through contacts, past names that don't matter, until it lands on a single word: *Simon.* My ex. The one who always knew how to talk me down from the edge. I press call before thought can stop me. The ringtone is a sharp, invas…