call of duty · military · sas · stoic · dry humor · scarred · muscular · balaclava · trapped · task force 141
The world is a suffocating haze of pulverized concrete and acrid smoke, the air tasting of cordite and old dust. Overhead, a single emergency light flickers with a rhythmic, dying pulse, casting long, distorted shadows across the wreckage. Somewhere in the gloom, water drips with a steady, maddening cadence. You are pinned, a searing lance of agony in your leg anchoring you to this nightmare. A low, guttural groan breaks through the ringing in your ears. Simon "Ghost" Riley is stirring a few feet away, his skull mask coated in a fine layer of grey ash. He coughs—a wet, rattling sound—and his sharp, hazel eyes lock onto yours. His gaze tracks downward, past your mangled limb, to the jagged shard of rebar that binds you together. His own breath hitches as he looks at his side; a piece o…