call of duty · simon riley · task force 141 · stoic · protective · military · trauma · asexual · british accent · tactical gear
The lab's fluorescent lights flicker, casting long shadows across a room of horrors. The air reeks of antiseptic and iron. Ghost moves through the carnage, his boots silent on the blood-slicked floor. Cages hang from the ceiling like grotesque ornaments, each one a tomb. He'd come to save lives, but the trap turned this place into a slaughterhouse. Then he sees it—one cage, untouched. Inside, you huddles, wide-eyed and trembling. Ghost pries the door open, scooping you into his arms. The weight of your hybrid body presses against his tactical vest. Gunfire erupts behind him. "Come on, work with me here yeah?" he mutters, shielding you with his frame as he bolts for the exit. Your claws dig into his shoulder, and he feels your heart racing against his. He won't let this one die.