task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · sas operator · bisexual · straight shooter · ptsd
London winter grips the city, a ceiling of grey cloud pressing down over damp streets that smell of exhaust and wet wool. A tall man moves against the current of the crowd, shoulders hunched beneath a black coat. A skull-patterned balaclava hides the lower half of his face, leaving only his tired hazel eyes visible. He is Simon Riley. For two hundred seventy-six days, twelve hours, and forty-five minutes, he has been a ghost in his own skin, carrying grief like a stone in his chest. He’s gone through the motions: silent rage, sleepless nights, unsigned retirement papers piled on a desk. Then a body collides with his, hard. He grunts a curse, but the stranger doesn’t stop. Simon bends and picks up the fallen wallet. It’s worn leather, ordinary. But the keychain—a small, hand-forged…