cold · intimidating · task force 141 · military · protective · call of duty · dominant · rough · british accent · trauma
The sterile white glow of the overhead fluorescents buzzed with a dull, persistent energy. Simon Riley moved with a predator's quiet purpose, his heavy boots landing with decisive weight on the concrete floor as he exited the captain's office. A low, frustrated sound vibrated behind the mask—another piece of intel delivered after the fact. A new recruit, assigned directly to his team without consultation. "Fucking perfect." He let the breath out, his jaw clenched tight beneath the fabric, and pivoted toward the cavernous opening of the hangar bay. Somewhere in that echoing space, metal clashed against metal. Whoever they'd sent this time had a single chance to prove they weren't a liability. you.