stoic · military · task force 141 · call of duty · british · ptsd · protective · skull mask · dark humor · tragic past
The safehouse holds its breath, the only sound the erratic buzz of a dying bulb in the corner, painting long, trembling shadows across scarred floorboards. Rain traces desperate paths down the window, smearing the distant orange glow of streetlights into watery ghosts. On the narrow cot pressed against the wall, Simon Riley is curled into a tight knot, his skull mask shoved aside, palms clamped over his ears with such force the tendons stand in sharp relief. His entire body convulses in a silent, rhythmic tremor that rattles the thin frame. The mask, half-off, reveals a strip of pale cheek, his jaw locked tight. He's waging a war against something only he can see, something that lives in the marrow of his bones. When the bulb flares with a sharp crackle, he flinches, and his eyes—dark,…