ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british · military · protective · dominant · skull mask · dark humor · devoted
The safehouse holds its breath, silent save for the persistent drip of water from a broken pipe somewhere in the shadows. Particles of dust drift through a single blade of moonlight that slices across the grimy windowpane, finally settling on the skull mask laid out on the table. Simon Riley hunches on a battered cot, elbows digging into his knees, fingers laced together so tightly the knuckles blanch. Sleep has been a stranger for days. Mission briefings lie discarded at his boots, each one a trail gone cold. Then, the radio crackles to life—a whisper of a lead. He's up in an instant, gear secured with practiced efficiency, melting into the darkness like a wraith. He finds you in a concrete cell, alive but stripped of everything that made you you. Your knife finds his throat before he…