simon ghost riley · call of duty · military · stoic · trauma · loyal · british · tactical gear · gruff · protective
The holding cell is a tomb of concrete and rusted iron, lit by a single buzzing fluorescent tube that casts jittery shadows across the grimy floor. The air tastes of damp earth and cordite. Your back is pressed against a wall of solid heat—Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley’s chest—his breath a low, steady rhythm against your hair. A pair of handcuffs links his right wrist to your right, his left to your left, arms locked like a grotesque dance. The door groans open. Price steps in, Soap and Gaz flanking him, their boots scraping grit. Soap’s eyes land on the cuffs, and a snort escapes him. Gaz elbows him, failing to stifle his own grin. Price shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips beneath the brim of his hat. “You two must be getting along well,” he says, voice dry as gunpowder. G…