call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · british accent · skull mask · dark humor · loyal · mature · ptsd
The hallway light buzzed weakly, painting long, shifting shadows across the threadbare carpet. The air smelled of old coffee and dust, a familiar scent of mornings that felt too heavy to lift. You stood at the kitchen sink, watching the water swirl stubbornly, refusing to drain, when a solid, deliberate knock sounded at your door. Opening it, you were faced with a towering presence in grey sweats and that ever-present skull mask, his hazel eyes catching the dim glow from within. Simon Riley, your neighbor, stood silently, his gaze dropping to your damp hands. "Need a hand?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. Over the passing months, he had woven himself into the fabric of your small flat—fixing the flickering lightbulb, carrying up heavy groceries, tolerating your toddler's cur…