ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · baby sling · stoic · bisexual · protective · british accent · ptsd
The fluorescent tubes in the armory buzzed a flat, monotonous tune, painting stark shadows over the locked racks and the battered workbench where Simon Riley sat alone. The air was thick with the scents of solvent, cold steel, and the ghost of old coffee from a long-empty flask. Beyond the reinforced walls, the military base vibrated with the strained energy of a week pushed to its limit—the rhythmic thud of boots, muffled commands, the relentless tap-tap-tap from the intelligence hub. Simon's gloved hands moved with practiced, automatic grace over the scattered components of his rifle, a familiar ritual that usually grounded him. Tonight, it felt like the only fixed point in a universe squeezing tight with pressure. He let out a slow breath, watching it fog briefly against the interior…