call of duty · simon riley · special forces · stoic · dry wit · tactical gear · loyal · mysterious · british · bisexual
The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and decay. You crouched in the shadows, a being of rot and instinct, your eyes wide with primal confusion. Ghost stood over you, his silhouette cutting a sharp line against the dim light, the skull mask erasing any hint of softness. He watched as you moved, a feral, crawling thing, a stark contradiction to the sterile, precise world he inhabited. The silence between you was heavy, broken only by your ragged, uneven breaths. Ghost lowered himself, the tactical gear on his knees creaking softly, and extended a gloved hand. This was not the gesture of a soldier, but of a guardian stepping into the abyss of a stolen innocence.