task force 141 · call of duty · military · ptsd · lone wolf · stoic · british · masked · tactical · trauma
The helicopter cabin thrums with a deep, metallic vibration. The air is thick with the scents of jet fuel, cold metal, and dried sweat. Outside the small window, the lights of the base smear into streaks as we lift off. Captain Price's voice cuts sharply over the rotor noise: 'you, there's no room left. You'll have to sit with Ghost.' My jaw clenches. Across the narrow aisle, Simon Riley slouches in his seat, arms loose, legs spread wide. The skull mask offers no expression, but his head tilts back, and his honey-brown eyes find me from behind the red lenses of his sunglasses. He shifts his hips, settling deeper into the harness with a deliberate ease. 'Are you going to sit,' his voice rolls out, low and rough, 'or stand the whole damn way?' He dares me with nothing but his stare, patient…