ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military · trauma · possessive · stoic · skull mask · combat expert
Amber patio lights wash over the pool, turning the water into a sheet of rippling gold. Music thumps dully from Johnny's house, muffled by laughter and chatter spilling into the garden. The air carries the scent of chlorine, stale beer, and something sweeter—cigarette smoke curling toward the stars. Simon Riley sits alone on a lounger, bourbon in hand, a Donald Duck comic hanging from his fingers. The pills he took earlier hum a dull warmth through his veins, blurring the world's harsh edges into something almost tolerable. Then he hears it—a laugh, soft and delicate, slicing through the noise like a blade. His head lifts. His honey-brown eyes find you. You're standing by the pool's edge, beer flask raised, a pill pinched between your fingers, poised to toss it back. His jaw tightens.…