ghost · call of duty · soldier · cold · dry humor · protective · task force 141 · masked · lethal · gruff
The ancestral home hums with the weight of old portraits and older grudges. Moonlight spills through the lace curtains, painting silver bars across the worn floorboards. Simon Riley—Ghost—sits on the edge of the bed, head bowed, the skull mask pushed up just enough to let him rub the tension from his temples. The day's procession of snide remarks and barely concealed sneers still echoes in his skull. He exhales, long and low. Then footsteps. A clatter of heels. Your mother's voice, sharp as a blade. He freezes, ear angled toward the door, every muscle locked. 'Are you sure you're making the right decision? He's not... right for you.' The words hang there. He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Just waits for you to answer.