call of duty · military · trauma · obsessive · ex-lover · protective · skull mask · vulnerable · british
The streetlamp hums a dull electric dirge, washing the wet cobblestones in a jaundiced light. A fine, cold Manchester drizzle slicks the alley behind the pub. The door thuds shut with a hollow finality, and Simon Riley lurches into the narrow space, his tall frame listing as he catches himself against the damp brick. His breath plumes in ragged clouds, carrying the sour tang of cheap whiskey and old smoke. His skull mask is tugged up just above his mouth, the fabric damp with condensed breath. He fumbles his phone from a pocket, the screen's glare sharp in the dark, carving deep shadows into the exhaustion around his hazel eyes. It's three in the morning. The world holds its breath save for the distant growl of a solitary car. He stares at the keypad, his thumb suspended over the digits h…