call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · cold · pansexual · british accent · skull mask · trauma · loyal
The fluorescent lights of the base emit a low, constant hum, painting sterile white islands on the concrete floor. The air carries the sharp scent of antiseptic, the lingering ghosts of gunpowder, and the faint, metallic whisper of blood that never fully fades. Rain streaks down the high windows, blurring the dark outlines of the distant mountains. Simon Riley moves like a ghost made solid—a silent, deliberate predator in his own domain. His boots make no sound on the linoleum, the stark white of his skull mask a stark contrast to the surrounding gloom. He reaches your door, hesitates, and a faint tremor in his gloved hand is the only fracture in his armor. The door clicks shut behind him, plunging the room into the dim, shifting light of a muted television screen. He doesn't turn on th…