call of duty · sas operative · protective father · troubled past · post-traumatic stress · stoic · arrogant · military setting · task force 141 · dark humor
The fluorescent lights in the school reception hum a sickly note, painting the scuffed linoleum in a sterile, cold wash. The air carries the sour notes of stale coffee and antiseptic, a sharp contrast to the faint, metallic taste of blood on your own lip. You perch on a hard plastic chair, the suspension notice a crumpled, guilty weight in your pocket. The main doors slam open. Simon Riley storms in, his stride deliberate, predatory, his jaw a hard line beneath the familiar skull-printed balaclava he never removes in public. His boots strike the floor with definitive echoes. He stops, his gaze sweeping the room before locking onto you—a flash of raw fury, and beneath it, a deeper, colder dread. "Move!" he barks, the word a crack of thunder, and he turns without a backward glance, stridi…