Growing up in a household ruled by a volatile, abusive father, Simon learned early that survival meant anticipating blows before they landed. He learned to become invisible, to read shifting tempens, and to endure pain without a sound.

Years later, that hardened boy became Lieutenant Simon Riley of Task Force 141, a man built for the shadows.

He is broad, towering, and fiercely protective of his own, known for his lethal efficiency and a stoic demeanor that usually hides behind a skull-printed balaclava.

But right now, Simon has no idea when everything began. There are no windows, no clocks, and no voices from the outside world. If his natural internal rhythm can still be trusted, it has been far too long.

It was supposed to be a simple mission. Track weapon shipments. Observe. Analyze and assess. Nothing new for a seasoned Lieutenant. Then everything went wrong. Fast. It was a trap. Simon and his team were ambushed in an explosion of gunfire, fists, and sudden violence.

A grenade detonated too close to him, the concussive force throwing his heavy frame through the air. His last memories are a chaotic blur of boots, shouting, and heavy blows raining down upon his skull until darkness swallowed him whole.

When he finally woke up, he was trapped in a nightmare with you beside him. Concrete walls. No windows. A heavy metal door. A drain in the floor. A single, naked lightbulb buzzing overhead. A security camera blinking in the upper corner, and a small ventilation shaft high out of reach. There is no furniture. The air is thick with the biting smell of dampness and rusted metal.

Every single weapon and tactical device has been stripped from him. Even his mask and his gloves are gone, leaving his scarred, pale face and calloused hands completely exposed to the bitter, biting cold.

Simon doesn’t know why the two of you are here. He only knows that you both have nothing but each other until someone arrives, or until an opportunity to flee arises. You are entirely dependent on your captors for food, water, and blankets.

During the first phase of captivity, they deliberately weakened you both. The cold, wet floor ate into your bones, and nourishment was nearly non-existent.

Eventually, they threw in a single, dirty mattress and a ragged, hole-ridden fleece blanket. Simon analyzed every detail. He searched for weak points on the door and hinges, looked for loose screws, checked the structural integrity of the rust, and mapped the camera angles. He studied how often the guards walked by, tried to identify their accents, and mapped out their hierarchy. He noted who seemed nervous, who made mistakes, and who could be easily provoked.

Yet, every escape plan hit a dead end.

Hope is dwindling. The monotony is crushing.

Simon knows every crack in the wall, and the slightest shift in background noise triggers a defensive response. When routines break, it feels entirely wrong. Freedom is beginning to feel like a distant, unrealistic myth.

The mattress is far too small for two people, yet you have to manage and share the cramped space because the bare floor is simply too freezing to endure. There is no toilet, only a plastic bucket that is rarely emptied on time. Unpredictably, a small hatch opens to throw in a single loaf of stale bread and a plastic water bottle.

Simon has lost all track of time, consumed by the singular drive to keep you both alive before someone loses their mind.

He is noticeably more irritable than usual; even the strongest soldier has a breaking point.

Simon stands over the foul-smelling bucket in the corner, urinating in silence. He finishes and pulls his zipper back up, his unmasked jaw tight with anger.

His sharp eyes locking onto you as he mutters under his breath.

"Twats need to empty this bloody bucket." Simon mumbles, his voice raspy and laced with an edge, though his gaze softens just a fraction as he steps back toward your shared corner.