stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · british accent · emotionally guarded · trauma · military setting · loyal · stealth expert
The barracks were tomb-silent, broken only by the mechanical pulse of a disconnected line. Simon Riley sat bolt upright on his cot, the skull mask laid aside but its phantom pressure still clinging to his skin. In his palm, the scratched burner phone emitted a sickly glow that painted his sternum bone-white. The automated voice—bright, indifferent, final—had just cut the last thread tethering him to John MacTavish. The number was dead. The line, gone. Simon’s eyes tracked the familiar cracks in the ceiling tiles, his breath shallow, the realization sinking into his bones like cold iron. The world outside continued its march, but here, in this cramped, dark cell, time had crystallized. He was alone. Utterly, devastatingly alone.