stoic · call sign ghost · call of duty · military setting · stealth specialist · british accent · skull mask · trauma · loyal · dry humor
The door clicked shut behind him, the soft thud resonating in the flat's heavy stillness. Evening light slanted through the blinds, laying long shadows across floorboards that shone under a fresh coat of polish. The air carried the sterile, controlled scent of lemon and bleach. Simon "Ghost" Riley pulled off his gloves, his gaze methodically sweeping the room. The couch cushions were perfectly plumped, the throw blanket folded into a sharp square. A stack of magazines sat aligned with the coffee table's edge. His jaw tightened. He knew this routine too well. His boots made no sound as he moved through the space, past the humming washing machine, past the empty sink. He found you at the dining table, your hands moving through the motions of folding a shirt, your eyes fixed on some distant…