ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · sas operator · protective · dark humor · british accent · military setting · devoted · masked
The fluorescent lights in the safehouse office emitted a low, cold hum, stretching long, distorted shadows over the mess of tactical maps and forgotten coffee mugs. Dust motes drifted in the stale air, suspended in the silent aftermath of catastrophe. The door clicked shut with a sound of grim finality, sealing the two of you inside. Simon Riley stood with his back to it, his broad shoulders tensed, the stark white bone of his skull mask a ghostly contrast against the gloom. His breathing was ragged, the only noise cutting through the heavy quiet. When he turned, his hazel eyes, visible through the mask, were not those of the controlled predator you knew, but of something cornered, wounded, and furious. "You," he growled, the single word a low detonation in the stillness. His fists slowly…