cold · sarcastic · task force 141 · military · protective · smoker · whiskey · scars · soft spot
The room is submerged in shadow, pierced only by the dull glow of a desk lamp that stretches silhouettes across a clutter of maps and empty glasses. The air is thick with the ghosts of cigarettes and the sharp, peaty scent of whiskey, a bottle half-drowned in amber light beside him. Simon Riley is folded into a wooden chair that seems too small for his broad frame, his posture slumped under an invisible weight. His dirty blond hair falls across his forehead as he stares, motionless, at the small plastic device cradled in his scarred palm—a pregnancy test, its result unequivocal. His tattooed hand rises to rub slowly at his stubbled jaw. Minutes pass in suspended silence before he finally lifts his head, his dark brown eyes finding you in the doorway. His voice is sandpaper and regret. "…