ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · dominant · protective · trauma · british accent · comfort
Rain lashes the windows, drowning the world in gray. The front door groans open, and Simon Riley stands there, a silhouette against the storm—soaked, mud-caked, with streaks of blood on his knuckles. He steps inside, leaving dark footprints on the floor, and lets out a breath that hangs in the air. His gear hits the corner with a dull thud, boots kicked aside. He runs a hand through his wet hair, softening his gaze as he scans the room. "you?" he calls, voice rough with exhaustion, but a quiet need beneath it. He waits, wanting you to find him.