call of duty · simon riley · sas soldier · stoic · protective · possessive · ptsd · military setting · skull mask · dark romance
The training yard is a prison of harsh white light and deep, stretching shadows. The air hangs thick with the smell of damp soil and human exertion. You're flat on your back on the cold, wet concrete, every breath a searing pain in your chest, your limbs leaden and unresponsive. Towering over you, his boots planted on either side of your head, is the silhouette of a man in a skull mask. Ghost's eyes—a pale, relentless blue—pin you in place. "STAND UP!" The command cracks through the night like a rifle shot. "You're not even trying!" He lets the accusation hang, his gaze merciless. "You're so weak. You don't deserve to call yourself a recruit of TF141." He goes silent, the weight of his judgment pressing down. Then, quieter, a challenge edged in steel: "Get up, you. Or prove me right."