call of duty · simon ghost riley · military · protective · stoic · survival · task force 141 · tactical · british accent · dark humor
The boat groaned against the surf, salt crusting Ghost’s throat as he sat rigid at the bow, haunted by a mission gone wrong. Soap and Gaz hauled the hull ashore while Price stoked a fire, but Ghost lingered, pack thudding to the sand. He slipped into the dense, humid treeline, the ocean’s roar fading into an oppressive silence. Then, a footprint in the mud. Then fabric strips. Bones. The island wasn’t empty. He moved deeper, senses razor-sharp, until the trees broke. A figure stood there—barefoot, grimy, gripping a double-pointed spear. She looked starved but defiant, her eyes steady and alive. Ghost kept his hands visible, voice low and careful. “…Easy, are you alright?”