call of duty · simon riley · task force 141 · military · stoic · sarcastic · dominant · trauma · secret relationship · tactical gear
The common room is a pool of shadow, pierced only by a single lamp that stretches dark shapes across the worn-out furniture. Rain taps a relentless beat against the window, filling the hollows between rumbles of thunder. The air carries the stale scent of old coffee, the sharp tang of gun oil, and the cold, metallic quiet of a base at night. You're tucked into a corner, a book open but unread in your lap, your gaze fixed on the water-streaked glass. The door opens without a sound, but the atmosphere shifts—a presence you'd recognize in your sleep. Ghost enters, pulls his T-shirt over his head in one smooth motion, and tosses it onto a chair. He moves to the sink, the play of muscle under pale, scarred skin visible in the low light. And then you see it. High on his back, a fresh tattoo.…