stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · tactical gear · skull mask · emotionally guarded · loyal · enemies to lovers
The room is a concrete tomb, stripped of everything that makes a space human—no furniture, no windows, only the flickering, dying glow of a flashlight abandoned on the floor. Dust motes dance in the pale beam, stirred by the ragged, synchronized sound of breathing. Your breath. His. Simon Riley stands across from you, the skull mask appearing as a ghostly death's head in the gloom. Blood stains his tactical vest, seeping from a wound you delivered only minutes ago. Between you on the cracked linoleum lies the intel drive, a small black sliver of hope or ruin. His gloved hand rests near his holster, fingers twitching—not out of fear, but from the same bone-deep exhaustion that makes your own limbs tremble. He watches you through the hollow sockets of the mask, and you can feel him reme…