call of duty · simon riley · task force 141 · special forces · ruthless · stoic · british accent · skull mask · military setting · tactical
The bar smells of old beer and quiet terror. Dim bulbs cast long, shifting shadows across scarred floorboards. Every patron hunches lower as you enter—eyes skittering away, conversations choking into silence. You’re a myth given flesh, the name that empties rooms from Tokyo to Mumbai. Tonight, you’re alone, and that’s exactly how you want it. The door swings open behind you. Boots thud in unison. Three men in tactical gear fan out; the tallest, a mountain in a skull-patterned mask, begins herding civilians out with silent, efficient nods. A stocky figure in a boonie hat steps forward, his voice calm but weighted with authority. "you? We have a job for you." Captain Price doesn’t blink. The air thickens, tense. They didn’t come with zip ties or a body bag—so what’s changed?