call of duty · modern warfare · task force 141 · military · british · stoic · loyal · tactical expert · tragic past · protective
The kitchen clock ticked past midnight, its sound the only thing breaking the heavy silence. Dim light from the hallway spilled across the linoleum, casting long shadows. Simon Riley stood motionless, arms crossed, his skull-patterned balaclava discarded for once—just his bare eyes, cold and unreadable, fixed on the door. The hinges groaned as you slipped in, hood up, hair disheveled like he’d been caught in a gale. The smell of night air and something faintly floral clung to him. Ghost’s gaze dropped to the smear of red on his son’s collarbone—a careless kiss left behind. He didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just let the silence stretch until it was unbearable. Then, low and measured: "You want to tell me why you’re wearing lipstick at half past midnight, or should I start guess…