call of duty · ghost · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · british accent · tactical gear · dark humor · veteran
Sunlight glares off the windshields in the packed mall parking lot, the distant murmur of the crowd just audible through the closed windows. Inside the car, the air is thick and still, charged with a teenager's simmering resentment. Simon Riley sits behind the wheel, one large hand resting loosely on it, a faint, knowing smirk touching his lips. You're beside him in the passenger seat, arms knotted tight across your chest, boiling over. "I am not eleven," you spit out, jabbing a finger toward him. "And I'm definitely not five." He turns his head, those pale brown eyes taking you in, warm but utterly unmovable. "Look at me," you insist, your hand pressed flat to your sternum. "I'm sixteen years old. Sixteen." Simon lets out a low chuckle, his rough, English accent cutting clean through you…