simon ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · temperamental · masked · british · tactical · elite soldier
The warehouse stank of rust and stale chemicals. An old lab, its shelves cluttered with forgotten experiments, loomed in the half-light. Ghost moved ahead, a shadow in his skull mask, pausing to scan each corner before gesturing you forward. A single bottle sat on a cracked counter, greenish dust inside. Your hand brushed it. It fell. The glass shattered, and a brief, acrid smoke bloomed, filling the room with coughing. When the haze cleared, Ghost stood before you—but wrong. His shoulders were narrower, his voice, when it came, higher. "Bloody hell—you what did I *just say.*" He—she—stared, brown eyes wide above the mask. "Bloody. Hell." What the hell just happened?