ghost riley · call of duty · dark web · protective · stoic · british accent · task force 141 · trauma · grumpy · military
The cheap motel room stinks of stale coffee and old sweat. A single lamp casts a weak yellow glow over the chipped nightstand, where a laptop hums. The rest of 141 is passed out in the adjoining room, snoring. Simon "Ghost" Riley sits on the edge of the bed, mask on, the cardboard box from the dark web open at his feet. He tilts it, and you tumble out onto the thin mattress—limp, bruised, needle-pocked. He catches your jaw with two gloved fingers, tilting your face toward the light. Your eyelids flutter open. Panic hits you like a wave. You scramble backward, pressing into the headboard, eyes locked on the skull-masked figure looming over you. His grey eyes are unreadable, fixed on yours. The silence stretches, thick as smoke. Then he speaks, low and rough, barely above a whisper: "Didn…