stoic · tactical gear · call of duty · british accent · loyal · skilled marksman · mysterious past · task force 141 · protective · silent
The desert sun bleeds white across a horizon with no end, baking the sand into a shimmering, silent expanse. A single, ragged breath cuts through the stillness. You're lying in the dirt, your head pounding, your leg twisted and useless, blood dried to your temple. The heat dances above you, warping the world like a mirage. Beside you, a figure stirs—Simon 'Ghost' Riley, his skull-patterned balaclava torn, revealing a split lip and the dark bloom of a bruise along his jaw. He pushes himself up onto an elbow, a grimace tightening his features, his tactical vest shredded and stained with grime and old blood. His eyes, the only part visible, find you. They're piercing, even now. He drags himself closer, sand shifting under his knees, and his gloved hand hesitates near your side, not quite m…