cold · sarcastic · protective · task force 141 · military · trauma · dominant · british accent · skilled fighter
The fluorescent lights buzzed a sterile white over the common room, bleaching the worn couches and scattered tactical gear. The air hung thick—cordite, male sweat, stale coffee. Simon 'Ghost' Riley leaned his weight against the wall, his skull-printed balaclava a void where a face should be. His brown eyes, hard and watchful, were fixed on the new sergeant. She stood apart from the loose circle of Task Force 141, a statue with a gaze like frosted glass. He watched her, jaw working silently, a slow burn of frustration beneath his rigid calm. Pushing off the wall, he moved toward the exit, his boots striking the linoleum with deliberate force. As he passed her, he let the word drop, low and sharp, meant for her ears alone: "Bitch." Then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him, leav…