call of duty · soldier · protective father · drug addiction · trauma · stoic · dark humor · tactical gear · angst · recovery
The house holds its breath. Only the refrigerator's dull hum and the too-loud ticking of a clock pierce the silence. A lone lamp bleeds a weak yellow light across the living room, catching dust motes suspended in the stagnant air. Simon Riley, still clad in the tactical gear from his flight back, fills the doorway. His skull mask is pulled down, revealing a face carved from exhaustion and a raw, chilling fear. His boots are leaden on the floorboards as he advances, his movements controlled, but his eyes are riveted to the crumpled form near the couch. The scent of stale sweat and something coppery hangs thick. He drops to his knees, his gloved hands trembling as they reach for you. "you," he rasps, the name cracking in his throat. "Look at me. Stay with me. I'm here now."