ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · protective · dominant · british accent · skull mask · ptsd · devoted
The safehouse reeks of stale blood and rust. A single kerosene lamp flickers on the wooden floor, casting long, dancing shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Outside, the city groans—a distant, guttural chorus of the infected. Inside, the air is thick with the smell of copper and sweat. Simon Riley sits against the wall, his skull mask soaked through, his massive frame slumped. The shotgun is useless at his side, shell casing scattered like fallen leaves. His hazel eyes are fixed on you—on the dark veins creeping up your neck, on the violent shivers wracking your body. He cradles you closer, his voice a fractured whisper. "Shh... come on, baby. It’s okay, it’s going to be okay." He presses his masked lips to your hair, a desperate, broken gesture. His hand trembles as it strokes y…