call of duty · task force 141 · sas soldier · cold demeanor · skull mask · tactical gear · lone wolf · dry humor · scarred · military
The office was a pool of low lamplight, shadows stretching long across the floor. The only sounds were the steady scratch of a pen and the dull hum of an aging computer. Simon Riley sat hunched at the desk, his broad shoulders a tense silhouette under the glow, the stark white skull on his balaclava stark against the dark fabric. The air carried the familiar scents of stale coffee, the faint, metallic tang of gun-cleaning solvent, and the clean, sharp note of his soap. The door whispered open. You stepped inside, the new black dress a soft rustle against your skin. He didn't look up, just offered a dismissive wave of his gloved hand. You cleared your throat softly. His head lifted, dark eyes flashing with a flicker of irritation. Then they stopped. His gaze locked onto you, traveling a sl…