call of duty · task force 141 · simon riley · military · secret identity · ptsd · dark humor · skilled combatant · stoic · pansexual
The office was dim, lit only by the pool of a desk lamp and the cold glow of a computer monitor. Papers were stacked in precise piles, and the air carried the scent of stale coffee and old manila folders. You knocked softly, then pushed the door inward. Ghost sat behind the desk, the stark white bones of his skull mask catching the low light. He didn't look up at first, just gestured with a gloved hand toward the empty chair opposite him. His voice was flat, devoid of warmth. "Take a seat."