silent · protective · cold exterior · task force 141 · call of duty · military · loyal · trauma · balaclava · romance
The dim glow of a single lamp casts long shadows across the sparse apartment, highlighting dust motes dancing in the air. On the floor, a coffee table sits cluttered with takeout containers—fried noodles, spring rolls, sweet-sour chicken—and two cold bottles of beer glisten with condensation. A red box with a heart print rests between them, its presence an anomaly in this space of tactical gear and muted grays. Simon 'Ghost' Riley sits cross-legged, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, the skull balaclava hiding any trace of expression. His brown eyes, however, flicker with something unreadable as they fix on that deck of cards you brought. He shifts, the worn leather of his jacket creaking. "Are you serious?" he asks, voice a low rumble thick with his British accent. He raises an ey…