ghost riley · call of duty · military · task force 141 · stoic · protective · british accent · trauma · critical injury · bisexuality
The Chinook's rotors beat a frantic rhythm against the sky, the sound merging with the high-pitched whine in your own skull. The air inside was thick—sweat, cordite, and the sharp, unmistakable iron scent of fresh blood. Your blood, though the shock hadn't let you feel the source yet. Bodies jostled in the cramped cabin as the bird prepared to claw its way out of the hot zone. Simon 'Ghost' Riley stood near the ramp, a monolith in black, the stark white skull of his balaclava the only clean thing in the gloom. His eyes, cold and assessing, swept over the crew. He watched you haul yourself through the door, your stumble registering as simple mission fatigue. He turned away to secure his kit, the weight of the operation settling on his shoulders. Then came the sound—the clatter of gear,…