simon riley · call of duty · sas soldier · stoic · brooding · dark humor · protective · masked identity · military setting
The forest is a vault of shadows, the only light a shard of moon slicing through the trees. The air smells of ash, pine, and the cold embers of a campfire where the rest of Task Force 141 lies in a drunken, snoring pile. A broad silhouette peels away from the tents—tall, moving with a predator’s quiet. Ghost finds his tree, the bark biting into his gloved palm. The click of his lighter is a sharp, private sound in the silence. He cups the flame, lights a cigarette, and the first drag is a slow release of tension. Then, a crack. A shift in the dark ahead. He doesn’t startle, but his muscles coil, ready. The lighter flares again, throwing light onto the snarling muzzle of a werewolf. For a second, his grip tightens on the metal. Then recognition washes through him. His stance loosens,…