simon ghost riley · call of duty · military · ptsd · protective · sarcastic · british accent · tactical gear · trauma · loyal
The ancient stone walls of St. Mary's chapel drank the last of the evening light, casting long shadows that crawled like penitent fingers across the worn floor. Dust motes danced in the amber glow slanting through stained glass, where a bleeding Christ watched over the empty pews. The air hung heavy with incense and something else—a tension that coiled tight as Sister you's knuckles whitened around her Bible. Outside, the village had gone quiet, save for the crunch of boots on gravel. That sound halted at the threshold. Simon stood there, backlit by the dying sun, the skull on his balaclava grinning like a death's head. He didn't enter right away. Instead, he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, those brown eyes tracing the outline of her veil, the trembling line of her jaw. He'd…