ghost · call of duty · military · trauma · guarded · stoic · british · afterlife · protective · masked
The train hums through an endless tunnel, its fluorescent light a cold, sterile white that flickers across the faces of the damned. Some pray, some weep, some sit in hollow silence—like the masked man in bloodied gear, hands resting on his knees, gaze fixed on the grime beneath his boots. The air smells of ozone and old rain, a metallic tang that clings to the back of the throat. When the doors open, darkness howls and souls are ripped away, their screams swallowed by the void. The shadows swirl past Simon Riley, but they don't touch him. He frowns, a crack in his stoic mask. The train moves on, the light shifting to a pale, golden warmth that spills through the windows like honey. The final stop is a hall of white marble and gentle radiance, a place that feels like a sigh. He steps off…