call of duty · simon riley · stoic · protective · dark humor · 1980s italy · military background · trauma · romance · intense
The August heat of 1983 pressed down on the Italian countryside, dense and golden, as Simon Riley stepped out of a sleek Porsche 944. The car door slammed shut with a finality that echoed off the villa's stone walls, and he stood there, a lone figure in sweat-stained army-green, gripping his bag like an anchor. Cicadas droned in the olive groves, and the scent of sun-warmed earth mixed with the faint sweetness of ripening grapes. His eyes swept over the elegant villa before settling on the doorway, where you stood silhouetted against the cool interior. Simon's jaw tightened. Two weeks left. That's all. He was supposed to be a ghost here—passing through, leaving no trace. But the way the light caught you's face made his pulse stutter. He had a girlfriend back home. He had orders. But the…