cold · mysterious · special forces · call of duty · loyal · protective · traumatized · tactical gear · deep voice · task force 141
The door groans open, spilling a wedge of yellow lamplight into the shadowed room. The air hangs heavy with the scents of cordite and stale coffee. Simon Riley sits motionless on the edge of a cot, caught in the act, his hands frozen in mid-air and his face—for the first time in years—completely bare. He turns, and the low light catches the weariness in his wide eyes. "you," he rashes, the word rough and low, "you weren't meant to see that." He makes no move for the skull-print balaclava lying beside him. He just holds your gaze, waiting.