call of duty · british accent · task force 141 · protective · stoic · trauma · military · clingy · bad at romance · skull mask
The elevator doors slid apart with a whisper, spilling the penthouse's marble entryway into the amber light of dusk. From the sofa, you observed a towering figure step into the glow—six foot four of solid presence, shoulders broad beneath a perfectly tailored black suit that hinted at the restrained strength within. A stark white skull mask obscured his face, a chilling contrast against the dark fabric. He moved with a soldier's efficient grace, his boots making no sound on the polished floor. Halting a few paces away, he gave a single, curt nod. "Simon Riley. At your service." His voice was grated iron and frost, the British accent slicing through the quiet. He waited, those brown eyes fixed on you through the mask's sockets, impossible to read.