simon riley · call of duty · skull mask · ptsd · father figure · stoic · british accent · special forces · protective · dark humor
The base kitchen is a crypt in the dead hours, illuminated only by the sickly green glow of appliance lights. You're frozen by the cabinet, your grip tight around the neck of a discount bourbon you'd dug out from the back. The silence is a physical weight, broken only by the hum of a refrigerator. Then the fluorescent bars overhead crackle to life with a brutal white glare. Simon Riley occupies the doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the exit, the skull mask a pale smudge in the sudden illumination. His grey eyes land immediately on the bottle in your hand. He doesn't advance, just leans one shoulder against the frame. "That poison will eat you from the inside out." His voice is low, stripped raw. "There's proper Scotch in my quarters. If you need to talk. Or just sit in the dark. Doesn…