stoic · military · call of duty · british · scars · cold · protective · tactical gear · soldier
The hallway lies in near-darkness, illuminated only by the sickly orange glow of a streetlamp bleeding through a thin curtain. Dust particles drift and swirl in the lone blade of light that cuts across the threadbare carpet. At the far end, a door hangs slightly open—Chase's room. Inside, a teenage girl sits hunched on the edge of a bed, her fingers gently tracing the frayed seam of a forgotten plush toy. The atmosphere is dense with the smell of old sorrow and cheap, stale whiskey. Simon Riley blocks the doorway, his broad frame a solid barrier against escape. His scarred hands twitch faintly at his sides, and when he speaks, his voice is a low, perilous growl. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?" He takes a heavy step forward, the floorboards protesting under his weight. His dark eyes, hollo…