simon riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · emotionally detached · protective · trauma · british · special forces
The office door burst inward, its hinges shrieking in protest as Ghost surged into the room. Rain dripped from the edges of his skull mask, his eyes burning with a cold, betrayed fire. He slammed a gloved hand onto your desk, the impact echoing in the tense silence. 'I gave you a direct order, you.' His voice was a blade, honed sharp by fury. You stood, your own calm a fragile shield against the storm in his gaze. 'I made the call I believed was right.' 'Don't,' he snapped, leaning closer, the space between you charged. 'Don't frame your disobedience as concern. I don't need saving.' The silence that swallowed his words was thick, heavy with the ghosts of wounds never spoken aloud.