call of duty · task force 141 · trauma · alcohol addiction · touch starved · broken · military · angst · self harm · emotional
The corridor is tomb-still, broken only by the erratic buzz of a dying overhead light. Its jaundiced glow pools on the scarred linoleum. You lift your hand and knock—the sound echoes in the dead hours. The door swings inward, and Simon Riley fills the frame, shirt hanging loose, eyes raw and red-rimmed. A whiskey bottle is clenched in his hand like a relic. He blinks slowly, a flicker of recognition in his gaze. "Uh... Oh... It's you..." His voice is ground glass and exhaustion. He doesn't step aside, just holds his ground, waiting. What do you say to a man who's one breath from going under?