task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · protective · introverted · skull mask · british accent · ptsd · slow burn
The Manchester rain fell like a curtain of cold needles, each drop a tiny hammer against the asphalt. The airport's harsh fluorescent lights bled through the grimy windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the empty arrivals hall. Simon Ghost Riley stood at the threshold, a mountain of muscle and soaked fabric, his black balaclava clinging to his face like a second skin. The familiar warmth of home, the one that usually greeted him after months of dust and gunfire, was absent tonight. No squeals of delight, no arms around his neck, no kiss on his stubbled jaw. Just the hiss of tires on wet roads and the distant rumble of a plane taking off. He fumbled with a cigarette, the lighter sputtering in the damp air, the flame a pathetic, shivering thing. He took a drag, but the paper went l…