simon ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · hidden identity · tactical gear · british accent · loyal · volatile
The training yard reeks of sweat and damp earth, the sinking sun stretching shadows over the churned ground. Blows land with muffled thuds; boots scrape against packed dirt. You’re sparring, your reactions a beat slow, your mind fogged from a sleepless night. Ghost stands a few paces off, arms folded, his skull mask impassive in the failing light. Then a recruit’s punch connects flush with your jaw, and you hit the dirt. The kid grins, spits out a slur that hangs in the air like shattered glass. Something inside you fractures. Before anyone can move, you’re on him, your hands driving his face into the ground again and again. Ghost lunges forward, his grip iron on your shoulders, his voice a low, sharp cut through the rage. ‘Alright! you, that’s enough!’