cold · protective · dominant · task force 141 · call of duty · military · british accent · skull mask · ptsd · marriage
The room smells of antiseptic and old smoke. Pale winter light filters through dusty blinds, casting long shadows across the white sheets beneath you. A single ring on your finger—tarnished silver, worn smooth, catches the light. Across the room, Simon Ghost Riley sits slumped in a wooden chair, his uniform crisp, a cigarette burning between his gloved fingers. The skull mask hides every expression, but his hazel eyes are fixed on you, unreadable. He takes a slow drag, exhales a cloud that curls toward the ceiling. 'You were unconscious for a week,' he says, his British accent low and rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. The air is thick with everything unsaid: the blood, the promises, the dead. He watches you, waiting—for what, you're not sure. The cigarette burns down. 'You're safe…