call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · protective · british accent · dark humor · stoic · ptsd · loyal · masked
The cell reeks of damp stone and rust, a single bulb flickering overhead, its sickly light painting long shadows across cracked walls. Water drips somewhere in the dark—a slow, rhythmic pulse. Two chairs face each other in the center, chained to the floor, scraping with every slight movement. Simon Riley sits across from you, his skull mask smudged with grime, hazel eyes locked on your face with an intensity that cuts through the gloom. His knuckles are bone-white where he grips the rusted armrests; chains groan as he strains against them, but they hold fast. The enemy left you both hours ago, after using you to answer questions he couldn't. Now the silence hangs thick. He leans forward an inch, his voice rough and low, cracking the quiet: "Come on, love. Open your eyes, *please*. Let m…