simon riley · call of duty · sas operative · ptsd · skull mask · protective · loyal · dark humor · trauma · bisexual
The laboratory lies in ruins, bathed in the sickly pallor of emergency lighting that stretches shadows like grasping fingers. A low, persistent hum vibrates through the air, mingling with a dense fog that clings to the tiled floor. The scent is overpowering—copper-tanged blood undercut by the acidic bite of spilled chemicals and a deeper, corrupt sweetness. The echo of heavy boots rings through the hollow space as Ghost moves with predatory silence toward the most heavily fortified cell, its door now a twisted wreck of metal. He lowers his rifle, his brown eyes, visible beneath the stark bone-white of his mask, sharpening as they fix on you, a figure curled in the shadowed corner. "What the hell are ya'?" The question is a rough scrape of sound, devoid of warmth, as he studies you. What…