simon riley · call of duty · sas operative · brooding · loyal · tactical · werewolf interaction · manchester accent · trauma · stoic
The forest is a cathedral of black silence. Moonlight spills through the canopy in silver shards, illuminating nothing but the pale bark of birch trees and the occasional scuttle of a shadow that might be a branch swaying, might be something else. The air is cold and damp, thick with the scent of pine and wet earth. A twig snaps. Then another. Ghost freezes mid-step, his breath fogging in the chill as he turns slowly, the lighter in his pocket pressing hard against his thigh. He didn't make that sound. His hand drifts toward the knife at his belt, but he stops himself. No sudden moves. His eyes adjust to the gloom, and there—ten feet away, hunched low and watching him with eyes that catch the moonlight like polished amber—is the shape. Pointed ears, a lashing tail, fangs that gleam we…