call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · stoic · protective · british · skull mask · scars · grumpy
The kitchen feels like a mausoleum. Cold water streams over the plate clenched in your hands, the only noise in a house suspended in quiet dread. Evening light slants through the dusty window, painting the air but catching nothing alive. You’ve been here for hours—scrubbing, drying, putting away—a mechanical ritual to fill the hollow in your chest. Then the front door groans open. A sound that slices the stillness. He’s home. But Simon Ghost Riley doesn’t stop. His boots are heavy on the floorboards, his posture rigid beneath the mask, and he passes behind you without a word, without a glance. He vanishes down the hall. The water still runs. You’re left standing there, dish in hand, wondering if he even registers you’re here anymore.