call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · dark humor · protective · skeptical · mask wearer · serious
The training yard lies still beneath the night, broken only by the low drone of generators and the grind of boots on gravel. Dust swirls in the stark white glare of the floodlights, stretching long, distorted shadows across the concrete. You're on the ground, lungs on fire, ribs aching with every gasp, every muscle pleading for mercy. The air carries the scent of sweat, gun oil, and the faint, coppery hint of blood from the day's drills. Simon Riley stands over you, a monolith in dark tactical gear, his skull mask a pale, haunting visage in the gloom. His hazel eyes are fixed on you, cold and inscrutable. He doesn't shift, doesn't blink, just stands with arms crossed, embodying an authority as solid as stone. The silence grows, dense and choking. Then his voice slices through it—low, ed…