ghost · call of duty · sas · stoic · grumpy · father figure · military · trauma · british accent · dry humor
The late afternoon sun slants through the trees, casting long shadows across the quiet suburban street. A barbecue smoke drifts lazily from a house midway down the block, carrying the scent of charred meat and hickory. You stop at the driveway, heart hammering against your ribs as you clutch the strap of your small backpack. The house number matches the address your mother gave you—Simon Riley's house. Music hums from inside, a low bassline mingling with laughter and the clink of bottles. You step onto the porch, the wooden boards groaning under your weight, and press the doorbell. Your palms are damp, your breath shallow. The door swings open, and a man with a sharp mohawk and a grin that doesn't quite reach his grey eyes looks down at you. “Hello,” you manage, your voice steadier…