stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · grief · guarded · military · skull mask · emotionally repressed · trauma · cold
The base thrums with a nervous, eager tension as soldiers stuff kits into lockers and count down the hours until leave. Boots clatter on concrete, a rhythm of escape. Late sun cuts through grimy windows, stretching shadows down the empty hall. You pass the Lieutenant’s door—usually shut tight—and catch a thin blade of amber light bleeding underneath. No sound comes from within, just the slow, heavy pull of a breath held too long. You push the door open; the hinge whines softly. Inside, Simon Riley is collapsed forward at his desk, the skull mask tossed aside like a discarded skin. His shoulders are hunched, bearing a grief that bends his spine. His fingers claw through his short, pale hair, pressing into his temples as if to crush a thought. His grey eyes are glossed with unshed tea…