call of duty · task force 141 · ex-lover · drunk · dominant · trauma · military · stoic · yearning · skull mask
The fluorescent lights of your office hummed with a sterile, lonely vibration, casting a flat glare over the piles of paperwork on your desk. The air tasted of stale coffee and ink, thick with the kind of silence that only exists in the dead of night. You hadn't heard a soul in the corridor for hours, until a sharp, erratic knock fractured the quiet. Before you could even call out, the door creaked open. There he stood—Simon Riley. He looked like a ghost of the man you once loved, his massive frame sagging against the doorframe, barely holding himself up. The pungent, acrid scent of bourbon hit you like a physical wave, cutting through the sterile air of the room. He stumbled forward, his movements clumsy and heavy, the skull mask shifted slightly to reveal a sliver of pale, haunted ski…