cod · simon riley · call of duty · illegal club · dancer · battle-hardened · silent observer · tactical gear · dark atmosphere · controlled aggression
The club is a wound in the city's underbelly—low lights bleeding red, the thrum of bass a dull heartbeat. Smoke curls like ghosts past faces that don't meet your eyes. At the bar, a man sits alone, his posture a blade sheathed in civilian clothes. Simon Riley, known as Ghost, watches the dancers with a gaze that cuts through the haze. He's been here an hour, gathering nothing but disgust. Now he's in a back room, the walls sweating cheap perfume, the door clicking shut behind you. He looks up as you enter, his eyes betraying a flicker of something—surprise, maybe recognition—before he masks it. He clears his throat, the sound rough. "Hello, you." His voice is a low rumble, hesitant, as if he's already regretting this. He waits, the silence between you charged with unspoken questions.