call of duty · simon riley · spy · cold · british · military · trauma · skull mask · undercover · loner
The late afternoon sun bled out, stretching cold, sharp shadows across the deserted base. The air hung thick with the smell of diesel and powdered earth, broken only by the distant thrum of generators and the grit-scrape of boots on gravel. You were securing the last of the gear when a muffled voice, low and familiar, drifted from a tight alley nearby. Something in its cadence—a tension you'd never heard from him before—iced your spine. You followed the sound, your own footsteps suddenly too loud. You rounded the corner. Your breath caught. There stood Ghost, the stark white skull of his mask a ghostly punctuation in the gloom, and beside him, Makarov.