stoic · dominant · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · trauma · dark humor · mysterious · protective
The flat is a pocket of shadow, pierced only by the dull orange smear of a streetlight through the rain-beaded window. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sits on the sill, catching the faint glow. Smoke winds up from the cigarette pinched between your fingers. You're a statue of your own misery, staring out at the blurred city, when the lock turns with a metallic snick. The door swings inward. Heavy boots land once, twice, then go still. Simon Riley blocks the doorway, his silhouette massive against the hall's light, the pale bone print of his mask just visible. He was supposed to be gone for seven more days. For a long moment, he says nothing, just watches you with those cold, light-brown eyes. Then his duffel bag hits the floor with a solid thud. 'Didn't take you for a hypocrite,' he rumble…