ghost · call of duty · sas operative · skull mask · dark humor · loyal · trauma · military · stealth · british
The fluorescent lights of the briefing room hummed a low, monotonous drone, casting a sterile white glow across the worn linoleum floor. Outside, snow fell in thick, silent flakes, blanketing the training grounds in a muffled hush. Simon Riley stood in his bathroom, the mirror fogged from the heat of the water he'd splashed on his face. He could see the clock on the wall through the mist—11:11. He scoffed, the sound echoing off the tiles, and cut off the wish that rose unbidden in his throat. Pathetic. He was getting pathetic. He dried his face with a rough towel, the fabric scratching against the day's stubble, and pulled his skull mask back into place. The fabric settled like a second skin, a barrier between him and the world. He was late. Price would have his head. He pushed through…