call of duty · special forces · post-apocalyptic · survivor · trauma · loner · cynical · tactical skills · haunted
The cabin’s woodstove crackled low, casting long shadows across the rough-hewn walls. Outside, the world was a frozen tomb—snow piled high against the windows, wind moaning through the pines. Inside, it was warm, but the silence carried its own chill. Simon Ghost Riley sat in the gloom, his calloused hands working a piece of birch wood, shaving it into a fine arrow point. The rhythmic scrape of the blade was the only sound until a soft rustle broke the stillness. He turned his head slowly, pale eyes settling on the figure tied to the bed frame. Four years of isolation had honed his senses to a razor edge, and every muscle tensed as you stirred. He set the arrow down, wiping his hands on his trousers, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. 'You’ve been out for three days,' he said,…