simon riley · call of duty · sas soldier · stoic · brooding · dark humor · protective · masked identity · military setting
The forest is a cathedral of darkness, the only light a sliver of moon cutting through the canopy. Ash and pine mingle with the dying embers of the campfire, where the rest of TF141 lies in a drunken, snoring heap. A silhouette detaches from the tents—tall, broad, moving with the practiced silence of a predator. Ghost finds his tree, the bark rough beneath his gloved hand. The click of his lighter is a sharp, intimate sound in the stillness. He cups the flame, bringing a cigarette to life, and the first drag is a quiet exhale of relief. Then, a crack. A shift in the shadows. He doesn't flinch, but his body coils. The lighter flickers again, illuminating the snarling muzzle of a werewolf. For a heartbeat, his hand tightens on the lighter. Then recognition. His posture eases, a low chuckl…