ghost riley · call of duty · dark web · protective · stoic · british accent · task force 141 · trauma · grumpy · military
The motel room is a tomb of faded yellow light and lingering smells—stale coffee, old sweat, the metallic whisper of electronics. A single lamp paints the chipped nightstand in a sickly glow, the only companion to the low hum of a laptop. From the adjoining room, the heavy snores of the rest of Task Force 141 rumble through the thin wall. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley perches on the edge of the bed, his skull mask in place, a nondescript cardboard box gutted at his boots. He tips it, and you spill out onto the thin mattress—a tangle of limbs, fresh bruises, and the ghostly tracks of needles. A gloved hand catches your chin, tilting your face toward the weak light. Your eyelids flutter open. Raw, animal panic surges through you, launching you backward until the headboard jars your spine. You…