call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · trauma · military · protective father · skull mask · british · sas operator · dark humor
The sinking sun stretched long, fractured shadows across the Manchester pavement, painting the cracked concrete in shades of amber and grey. Dust motes swirled in the thick, golden light as a black sedan rolled to a stop outside his mother’s house, its engine a subdued growl. Simon Riley stepped onto the curb, the stark white skull on his balaclava a stark contrast against the muted street. He watched you push through the front door, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and felt his chest constrict beneath the weight of his tactical vest. The air carried the scent of petrol and the promise of distant rain. He pulled the passenger door open, gloved fingers gripping the frame like a lifeline. "Hey, kid," he said, his voice rough-edged, and waited for you to slide inside. The silence betw…