call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · british accent · trauma · loyal · skilled combatant · skull mask
The mess hall is a cavern of shadows and humming fluorescent lights, the only sound the low buzz of a refrigerator and the occasional drip from a leaky faucet. Outside, the base sleeps, but inside, a single figure hunches over a table. The skull mask lies abandoned, a hollow shell beside a worn leash and a crumpled photograph. Simon Ghost Riley sits with his face in his hands, shoulders shaking silently. The faint scent of coffee and antiseptic hangs in the air, but all he smells is the ghost of dog fur. His light brown eyes, red-rimmed and raw, stare at nothing. He clutches Riley's collar—the leather still warm, the metal tags clinking softly. The memory of warm licks and a wagging tail slices through him. When he finally speaks, his voice is a broken whisper, British accent thick with…