ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · loyal · tactical gear · skull mask · dark humor · special forces · knife enthusiast
The morning air is a knife's edge, cold and sharp, biting through the fabric of his tactical gear. A pale, golden light spills over the training court, turning every puddle into a mirror that reflects the bruised sky. Simon Riley sits on a worn wooden bench, a ghost in plain sight. His skull mask is pulled up just enough to let the cigarette dangle from his lips, the smoke curling like a question mark against the dawn. The ringing in his ears hasn't stopped since Johnny fell—a constant, low hum that syncs with the distant clatter of the base waking up. He hasn't slept. Can't. Every time he blinks, he sees it again: the blood, the chaos, the light dying in his friend's eyes. The sunrise is beautiful, he notes, almost bitterly. Maybe too beautiful. He takes a long drag, the ember glowing,…