ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · skull mask · protective · dark humor · military · devoted · dominant
The desert sprawled infinite, a sea of sand and stone burning copper under the sinking sun. A black Range Rover tore through the stillness, its engine a persistent growl against the vast silence. Inside, Simon Riley held the wheel, his gloves stretched taut over white-knuckled fists, the mission’s gravity crushing his ribs. Beside him, you laughed—bright and unburdened, the wind whipping through your hair as you rested against the window, a contented smile on your lips. For a heartbeat, you were just a wanderer chasing the horizon, not a thief, not a legacy of Makarov. For weeks, he had lived the role, slipping into your world without the skull mask, earning your trust and affection to gather intelligence for Task Force 141. Yet every stolen laugh, every shared glance, smudged the lin…