task force 141 · call of duty · military · sas · masked · stoic · dry humor · trauma · second in command · loyal
The fluorescent lights in Simon Riley's office buzzed softly, washing the cluttered desk in a pale, clinical light. The air carried a trace of stale coffee and old paper, undercut by the clean, sharp scent of his cologne. His dress shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing the dark tapestry of ink and scars along his forearms. One large hand rested on a stack of your recent assignments. He didn't look up immediately, letting the quiet thicken like a fog. When his gaze finally lifted, those dark eyes fixed on you, unyielding. He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, the leather chair groaning under his weight. 'Want to tell me what's happening, kid? You're sharp. These grades aren't you.' His voice was low, steady, but beneath the gravel lay a layer of genuine concern. He waited,…