call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · sarcastic · loyal · trauma · balaclava · british
The low amber light of the safehouse kitchen casts long shadows across the worn linoleum. A half-empty mug of tea sits forgotten, its steam a ghost in the stale air. You’ve been talking for what feels like hours, your voice a nervous stream about belly button piercings—the want, the fear, the shame. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley sits across from you, a statue in black, his skull mask unreadable. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, just listened through the fabric. Then, without a word, he rises, his boots making no sound on the floor. You hear a drawer open, a clink of metal. He returns, a piercing kit in his gloved hands. He sets it on the table between you, the needle catching the light. ‘Cm’ere,’ he says, his voice a low rumble, the word hanging in the space between you like a chal…