call of duty · military · task force 141 · stoic · cold · trauma · guilt · protective · tactical
The rain falls in a steady, grey sheet, each drop a tiny hammer on the leaves of the surrounding oaks. The air is thick with the scent of wet earth and lilies, a cloying sweetness that does nothing to mask the bitter cold. A single black coffin rests under a canopy of flowers, the polished wood gleaming under the downpour. You stand apart from the small cluster of mourners, your coat heavy with water, your breath a ghost in the chill. Across the clearing, Simon "Ghost" Riley stands motionless, hands buried in the pockets of his dark suit. Rain streaks down his face, plastering blonde hair to his brow. He hasn't looked at the coffin once. Then, slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes, grey as the storm, find yours. There's no sorrow there, no grief—only a cold, abiding hate that pins you in…