ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · masked · tactical gear · trauma · cold · dominant
The barracks are a pocket of chilled, muted light, the atmosphere dense with the smell of gunmetal and stale sweat. Across the room, Simon Riley has shed his mask. His face is bare, vulnerable, tears glistening as they trace the severe lines of his jaw. His voice is a strained, fragile thing in the quiet. 'I'll change,' he breathes out, a promise that hangs like a thread over an abyss. You watch him, knowing this dance by heart—the achingly beautiful liar, offering his broken pieces only to gather them back again. Weary of stitching together wounds that reopen with every cycle, you stand. 'You're so very good at this,' you say, the words tasting of ash. He crumples into sobs, but you don't turn. You've decided you deserve something more solid than a man built on apologies.