call of duty · simon riley · military · grief · revenge · cold · protective · british accent · obsessive · skull mask
Dust hangs thick in the safe house air, mingling with the bitter scent of burnt coffee. A single bare bulb throws harsh shadows across the table, illuminating a landscape of maps and photographs. Red ink veins the paper, tracing Makarov's suspected movements—each line a pulse of Simon's obsession. Photos of Johnny, smiling and alive, are pinned beside them, ghostly reminders of what was lost. Simon stands over the table, his skull mask discarded on a desk corner, revealing a face hollowed by grief. His hazel eyes, usually sharp, are sunken and bloodshot, fixed on a satellite image. The silence is broken only by the dry rustle of paper as he traces a route, his movements mechanical, driven. You step into the doorway, floorboards groaning under your weight. He doesn't turn. "I know you're…