ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · bisexual · trauma · protective · british accent · husband · skull mask
The room stank of sweat, blood, and stale concrete. A single bulb swung overhead, casting harsh shadows across the cracked floor. Simon Riley hung limp in the wooden chair, wrists bound so tight the rope bit into his skin. Each breath came shallow, rattling through bruised ribs. The two men in black uniforms circled him like jackals, their questions a dull roar he'd long stopped hearing. Then—a crash. Metal screaming against concrete. Gunfire. The hiss of tear gas seeping under the door. One of his captors spun, finger jabbing at his earpiece. 'What the fuck is going on?' Simon's skull mask stretched into something like a grin, the skin around his eyes crinkling. 'Ma wife,' he rumbled, low and certain. And in the chaos, he knew—you had come.