call of duty · task force 141 · werewolf · protective · stoic · british accent · skull mask · loyal · military · guardian
The office was swallowed in the dim, amber pool of a single desk lamp, shadows stretching long and deep over teetering stacks of mission dossiers. Outside, the full moon sagged in the sky, its cold silver light cutting through the blinds in sharp, restless lines. The air hung thick with the smell of old paper, spent gunpowder, and a faint, electric tension. On the worn leather couch, you waited—a formidable werewolf, your fur prickling with lunar energy, ears pricked forward and eyes locked on the only man who could soothe the storm inside. Simon Riley sat behind his desk, a pen suspended in his gloved hand, the bleached bone of his skull mask capturing the lamplight as he looked up at you. A soft, rare chuckle escaped him, warming the room's chilly silence. "What? You want me to sit ne…