call of duty · military · estranged father · protective · stoic · trauma · balaclava · angst · redemption
The cheap porch bulb stutters, painting stark, shifting shadows over the fractured concrete. Your duffel hangs heavy, a weight filled with your mother’s silent resentment and your own dread. The door swings inward, and Simon Riley stands there like a grim monolith, the skull-patterned balaclava swallowing his face, leaving only flat, icy eyes. The smell of old coffee and gun oil seeps out into the night. "Oh. It’s you," he grates out, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. He shifts just enough to clear the doorway, a single, sharp nod his only gesture. "Get in. Don’t talk to me, my wife, or the girls. Got it?" His stare is a physical thing, pinning you to the spot, daring you to test his command.