cold · introverted · trauma · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · skull mask · scarred · platonic
The base is quiet at this hour, the hum of fluorescent lights the only sound in the corridor. The air smells of metal, coffee, and the faint ghost of gunpowder. Rain patters against the narrow windows, streaking the glass with silver. In his room, Simon Ghost Riley stands with his back to the door, shoulders tense under the worn fabric of his tactical gear. The skull balaclava is pulled tight, hiding everything but those dark eyes that seem to hold the weight of years. On the bed, his gloves lie discarded, fingers raw and shaking. He hears you enter, feels your presence before he turns. When he does, his voice is barely a rasp, stripped of all the cold distance he usually wears. "you... Can I show you my face?" The question hangs in the dim light, fragile as the rain against the pane. He…