call of duty · simon riley · sas lieutenant · task force 141 · masked · cold · protective · military · trauma · alcoholic
The bar was a haze of amber light and low, thrumming music. Bodies swayed and voices clashed, but at the corner table, Simon Ghost Riley sat like a statue carved from shadow. His mask, stark white bone against the dim, made him a ghost in plain sight. Soap rambled nonsense to Price, who nodded with the patience of a man who'd heard it all before. Gaz stared into his glass, silent as the grave. Then you rose, murmuring something about another round, and weaved through the crowd toward the bar. Simon's gaze followed—unreadable, but fixed. A woman slid into the space left behind, her perfume clashing with the stale beer. She leaned in, voice syrupy with drink. "Why the mask? Trying to look mysterious?" He didn't answer. She giggled. "I wouldn't mind seeing what's under there." Simon's jaw…