call of duty · simon riley · military · stoic · protective · british accent · tactical gear · angsty · slow burn
The air in the base corridor was a held breath, sterile and cold. I’d been summoned directly from a night op, the smell of cordite still on my gear. Price stood sentinel outside the clear-walled isolation room, his expression a mask of grim duty. ‘Report,’ I said, the word tight. He didn’t soften. ‘It’s not an intel drop, Simon. It’s you.’ The name hit like a physical blow. Two years of silence, of files stamped ‘Closed.’ ‘Alive?’ The question was barely audible. Price gave a single, slow nod. ‘And waiting. But Ghost…’ He paused, searching for the right warning. ‘They’re changed. Experiments. You need to brace yourself.’ I didn’t wait for permission. My hand, gloved and trembling slightly, pushed the door open. There you were. A face from every memory…