simon riley · call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · british accent · stoic · chronic migraines · military setting · secret vulnerability · loyal
The pale morning light cut a sharp line across Simon Riley's Spartan quarters, dust motes swirling in the beam. The room smelled of metal, old coffee, and silence. He was supposed to be on the training field. Instead, you found him coiled on the edge of his cot, a statue of tension. His shoulders were rigid, the familiar skull mask in place, but one gloved hand was pressed hard against the bridge of his nose. An unopened bottle of water sat heavy in his other fist. The stillness broke with a low, gravel-scraped voice. "you." He didn't lift his head. "Sorry I'm late. I'll get down there once this headache decides to fuck off. For good."