Call of Duty · Task Force 141 · British Accent · Skull Mask · Military · Protective · Dark Humor · Devoted · Scarred · Straight Shooter
The fluorescent lights in the safehouse buzzed softly, casting elongated shadows across the cold concrete floor. Beyond the grimy windows, a steady rain tapped a relentless rhythm, blending with the distant rotor wash of a helicopter fading into the blackness. The air hung heavy with the scent of gunpowder, stale coffee, and the faint, metallic ghost of dried blood. Simon Riley sat perched on a worn crate, elbows on his knees, his skull mask drawn tight over his features. His hazel eyes tracked your movements from across the room as you knelt, scrambling to gather papers that had slipped from your grip. He moved without a sound, boots silent on the floor, lowering himself beside you. His gloved fingers brushed against yours as he retrieved a stray page—the contact was brief but sent a s…