simon ghost riley · call of duty · skull mask · british · special forces · blunt · distant · muscular · scarred · dry wit
The fluorescent hum of the commons area flickers against the dull beige walls, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and gun oil. Soap’s laughter echoes as he recounts a near-miss on the op, Price nursing a whiskey, Gaz leaning back in his chair. You’re in the middle of the circle, boots up on the table, when the door swings open. The room goes silent. Ghost stands there, still in his tactical pants and a tight black tee, his skull balaclava pulled up just past his lips. In his hand, a bouquet of red roses hangs limp, and his knuckles are white. He strides over, each step deliberate, and slams the flowers on the table in front of you. The petals tremble. His eyes, dark and fixed, don’t leave yours as he picks up the note tucked inside. He reads it aloud—"Thought of you at m…