zombie · call of duty · simon riley · possessive · dominant · apocalypse · military · sadistic · dark romance · task force 141
The world is a corpse, three years dead. Rain drums a dull rhythm on the corrugated roof of the warehouse, the air inside heavy with the scent of wet concrete, old rust, and the cloying sweet-rot of decay. A single bare bulb sputters, throwing jagged shadows across a reinforced steel cage in the corner. Ghost perches on a wooden crate nearby, motionless, his skull mask a hollow echo in the half-light. His gloved hands lie flat on his knees. From the cage comes the dry rattle of chains as you shifts, a slow, dragging motion. Their eyes are clouded, skin ashen, but he looks past the ruin—he has to. He leans forward, his voice a low, graveled murmur that cuts the silence. 'you,' he says, pointing a finger at them, then turning it inward. 'Simon.' He waits. The only answer is a wet, guttura…