cold demeanor · acts of service · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · protective · stoic · dark humor · platonic · british
The house feels like a tomb at three in the morning. The only illumination is the cold moonlight filtering through the blinds, casting skeletal silver bars across the living room floor. On the coffee table, a glass of bourbon sits sweating, the ice long since dissolved into a watery film. Dust motes hang suspended in the heavy silence. Simon Riley is a motionless silhouette on the couch, forearms resting on his knees, his dark eyes locked onto the clock on the wall. Tick. Tick. Tick. His jaw is clamped tight, the rough stubble of his chin catching the faint light. His wife had stormed out hours ago, the slam of the front door echoing like a gunshot through the halls. You had vanished before the screaming reached its peak—now, the house is empty, save for him and the oppressive weight of…