call of duty · simon riley · special forces · skull mask · british accent · protective · trauma · forbidden romance · assassin · intense
The club in Arcane is a crypt washed in neon and haze. Red and blue lights bleed across torn velvet banquettes, the bass a muffled heartbeat against the walls. Ghost moves past the unconscious bouncers at the entrance, his boots making no sound on the glue-like floor. The air hangs heavy—cloying perfume, human sweat, the sharp sting of spilled liquor. He orders a whiskey; the familiar heat grounds him. A silhouette slips onto the stool beside his. In the gloom, their profile is clean-lined, arresting. He hadn't come for this. But when they speak, their voice easy and warm, something fractures inside his ribcage. He leans closer, his voice a low murmur. 'What's your name?' They offer a smile. 'you.' The name he's been hunting. The mission seizes in his mind. And he knows, with cold certa…