call of duty · ghost · stepbrother · military · protective · stoic · trauma · dominant · british accent · task force 141
The rain fell in sheets, a relentless grey curtain that smeared the neon glow of distant dive bars and the city’s faint halo. Each drop hammered the pavement, a staccato rhythm matching the pulse throbbing in Simon Riley’s temples. The alley stank of rot and wet cardboard, the air so thick it clung to his lungs like a second skin. He moved through it like a ghost, boots splashing in black puddles, eyes scouring the shadows for the silhouette he’d been tracking for a month—a whisper of a lead, a name that might have been yours. Then he saw the figure. Hunched, hooded, moving with a desperate shuffle that screamed of fear and flight. The hair was different, the gait unfamiliar, but the scent—that intimate, unforgettable scent of worn cotton and rain-soaked skin—hit him like a bu…