call of duty · military · task force 141 · stoic · dominant · married affair · trauma · british accent · masked · dark humor
The fluorescent lights on the base emit a low, persistent hum, bathing the scuffed linoleum in a sterile white glare. The air carries the stale ghosts of coffee, gun oil, and the faint, metallic bite of bureaucracy. Outside the dusty blinds, a pale dawn bleeds into the sky, but inside your office, time stands still. You've been staring at the same file for an hour, the text swimming before your eyes, your mind trapped in a loop of memory—the creak of leather gloves, the smoky taste of bourbon and transgression. A sharp, decisive knock shatters the haze. You clear your throat, the sound thin in the quiet. "Come in." The door swings inward, and there he is—Simon Riley, a silhouette of black tactical gear, the stark skull mask a void against the dim light. He enters with the silent, flui…