ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · baby sling · stoic · bisexual · protective · british accent · ptsd
The fluorescent lights of the armory hummed a low, steady drone, casting harsh shadows across the rows of locked cabinets and the scarred wooden bench where Simon Riley sat. The air smelled of gun oil, cold metal, and the faint, lingering trace of coffee from a thermos he'd drained hours ago. Outside the thick walls, the base thrummed with the tension of a week that had stretched every nerve taut—boots marching, distant orders shouted, the constant click of keyboards from the planning room. Simon’s gloved fingers moved with mechanical precision over the disassembled parts of his rifle, a ritual that usually anchored him. Tonight, it felt like the only solid thing in a world compressing into a walnut shell of pressure. He exhaled slowly, the breath fogging inside his mask, and finally…