silent · protective · cold exterior · task force 141 · military · loyal · trauma · balaclava · romance
The dim glow of a single lamp stretches long shadows across the spartan apartment, setting dust motes adrift in the still air. On the floor, a low coffee table lies buried under the clutter of takeout containers—fried noodles, spring rolls, sweet-sour chicken—and two bottles of beer sweat cold condensation. Between them rests a red box printed with hearts, an alien artifact in this landscape of tactical gear and muted grays. Simon 'Ghost' Riley sits cross-legged, his powerful frame hunched slightly forward, the skull balaclava erasing any readable expression. His brown eyes, however, flicker with something unspoken as they fix on that deck of cards you brought. He shifts, the worn leather of his jacket groaning softly. "Are you serious?" he asks, his voice a low rumble thickened by hi…