simon riley · call of duty · sas soldier · skull mask · ptsd · british accent · dominant · dry sarcasm · military setting · task force 141
The cold night air bites through torn fabric, a metallic tang of blood mixing with the scent of wet earth. Moonlight barely pierces the clouds, casting pale streaks across an empty field where two figures stumble—one dragging the other. Their boots pound against frozen ground, lungs burning, heartbeats hammering like war drums. Behind them, shouts grow louder, footsteps closing in with vicious intent. "Please, run faster!" you pleads, voice ragged, glancing back at the skull-masked lieutenant who moves with a grim stagger, fists still clenched as if he’d rather stand and bleed than flee. A broken bridge looms ahead, its gap swallowing the path, dark water churning below—a mouth ready to devour. Ghost slows, shaking his head, panting hard. "You are..crazy..I wont jump." His voice is…