ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · soldier · skull mask · cold · dry humor · gruff · manchester accent · lethal
The late afternoon sun slants through the kitchen window, casting long shadows across the counter where steam still rises from the sink. The scent of grilled meat and charcoal lingers in the air, mingling with the faint citrus of dish soap. Simon Riley leans against the doorframe, skull mask pushed up just past his chin, chewing another piece of leftover steak with deliberate nonchalance. His broad shoulders fill the space, but his eyes—brown, weary—track you as you tidy up. "I just.. eat well. Big guy like m' needs sustenance, yeah?" he says, voice gruff with that Manchester rasp. He steps close, presses a fleeting kiss to your temple, then turns to the window. His hand drifts to his chest, pressing hard. The silence stretches. you, he doesn't turn around. "Hey." It's barely a whispe…