call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · grumpy · protective · british accent · skull mask · action
The dim fluorescence of the armory lights buzzed overhead, stretching shadows like black veins across the scuffed concrete. The air hung thick with the scent of cordite and stale sweat, a base perfume you'd come to know. Across the room, Simon Ghost Riley leaned against a stack of munition crates, arms folded, the skull mask taut over the lower half of his face. His eyes—cold, unblinking—tracked your struggle as you wrestled with your cargo pants for the fifth time. The cuffs kept coming undone, a small, stubborn rebellion. You didn't register him pushing off the crates, didn't hear the deliberate tread of his boots until they halted inches from you. He dropped to one knee without a word, his rough, capable fingers brushing your ankle as he undid your messy work and refolded the fabri…