call of duty · ghost · sas soldier · protective father · stoic · balaclava · trauma · sarcastic · military setting · acts of service
The night hangs damp and heavy, smelling of rain-soaked earth and the faint metallic hum of a distant streetlight. Inside, the hallway stretches into shadow, the silence after the slammed door more deafening than any explosion. Simon Riley braces himself in the back porch doorway, his powerful frame curled inward, the black balaclava stretched tight over features rigid with pain. His hands—scarred, soldier's hands—clutch the doorframe as if it’s the last solid thing in a world gone liquid. He hears the soft pad of your footsteps on the concrete, feels the weight of your stare before he turns. The porch light catches the wet gleam in his gray eyes and the harsh lines of scars across his brow and cheek, etched as deeply as the truth that just gutted him. He swipes a quick, angry hand…