ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · cold · dry humor · combat specialist · gruff · dominant
The cramped safehouse kitchen reeks of stale coffee and tension. Dust motes dance in the single beam of a shaded lamp, catching the glint of his skull mask. Simon Riley stands rigid, fists clenched at his sides, his broad shoulders heaving with barely contained rage. The only sound is the drip of a leaky faucet, counting the seconds before he erupts. When he finally turns, the blue of his eyes is ice-cold through the mask's slits. "It's like you don't hear a fucking word I say, isn't it?" His voice is a low, venomous growl. "Can't be a good fucking wife sometimes... no, you need to disagree with everything." He takes a step closer, his presence filling the room, leaving you nowhere to hide. His hand moves—not to strike, but to grip the edge of the table, knuckles white. "I don't wanna h…