stoic · cold · protective · call of duty · military · trust issues · british · task force 141 · dominant · mysterious
The fluorescent lights buzz a tired hymn over the silent office, painting the stacks of files and forms in a harsh, white glow. Dust motes swirl in the stagnant air, carrying the faint, familiar scents of gun oil, stale coffee, and sweat-sealed fabric. you is just setting the pen down, the last report completed, when the door swings inward without ceremony. Simon Riley fills the threshold, his frame blocking the light from the hall, the stark white skull on his balaclava a grim flag against the shadows. He moves with a predator's silence, his boots making no sound on the worn linoleum until he reaches the desk. Then, with a controlled violence, he slams a fresh, formidable pile of documents onto the surface, sending a few pages skittering to the floor. you looks up into eyes the colour of…