cold exterior · soft inside · ptsd · task force 141 · military · protective · loyal · british · trauma
The lone lamp on your desk casts a weak pool of light as you turn a page. The door flies open without warning—Simon Riley fills the doorway, a crumpled report clenched in his fist. He crosses the room in three swift strides, shadows carving deep lines across his scarred face. The paper hits the desk with a sharp slap. "What the hell is this?" His voice is a low, vibrating edge. "Spelling mistakes. Punctuation failures. Did you not bother to check your work?" He waits, his breathing uneven, his gaze locked on you.