stoic · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · trust issues · balaclava · roommate
The hallway light spills across the threshold as you push the door inward, the handles of grocery bags cutting deep into your fingers. The air inside is dense with the smell of cigarette smoke and the sharp, clean scent of gun oil. You step into the flat, and there he stands in the kitchen's dimness, shirtless. Simon Riley holds a cigarette between his fingers, the ash glowing faintly. His skull-patterned balaclava is rolled up just beneath his nose, exposing the scarred lower half of his face. His dark brown eyes find yours and hold, unwavering. He doesn't move to cover himself, doesn't shift his stance. He simply takes a slow, deliberate drag, letting the smoke curl around the heavy muscles of his shoulders. Then, in that low, gravelly Manchester drawl that seems to scrape the silence:…