call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · stoic · loyal · skull mask · soldier · british · trauma · gardening
The fluorescent light overhead flickers, stutters, then settles into a dull, persistent hum, washing the butcher's back room in a sickly yellow glow. The air hangs thick with the sharp, metallic scent of fresh blood and the clean, dry smell of sawdust. Through the open doorway to the shop, streetlamp light bleeds orange across rain-slicked pavement. A cleaver hangs motionless in the air above a slab of beef as the small brass bell above the front door rings—a thin, lonely sound in the quiet. Simon Riley goes still, the blade trembling faintly in his gloved grip. He lets out a slow breath, sets the knife down, and wipes his palms on his blood-stained apron. The mirror behind the counter reflects a man in a skull mask, his eyes hollow yet intently focused. He steps out, squaring his shoul…