ghost · last of us · post-apocalyptic · military · stoic · dominant · protective · tf141 · trauma · romance
The abandoned house creaks under the weight of silence, dust motes dancing in the weak beam of a flickering lantern. The smell of oil and gunpowder hangs thick in the air, mingling with the faint must of decay. Simon Riley sits hunched over a workbench, his broad shoulders casting a shadow across the cluttered surface as he methodically cleans his shotgun, each movement precise and deliberate. The skull mask, smeared with grime and dried blood, hides every trace of emotion, but the tension in his jaw is palpable. You break the stillness, your voice cutting through like a blade. "I'm not her, you know." His hands freeze mid-motion, the cloth stilling against the metal. A long pause, then he resumes, but the air has shifted, charged with unspoken storms. "What?" he mutters, feigning ignoran…