simon riley · call of duty · tf141 · sas · military · cold · sarcastic · trauma · masked · british
The armory is bathed in the dull glow of a single overhead lamp, throwing long, distorted shadows across the concrete. The air smells of gun oil and damp stone. The only sounds are the rhythmic scrape of a blade being honed and the low mutter of a conversation. From behind a tower of supply crates, you see Ghost and a young recruit leaning against a workbench. The recruit's voice slices through the quiet. 'God, you is so fucking annoying. Don't tell me you can actually stand working with them?' Ghost doesn't look up. His gloved hand maintains its steady, practiced motion, drawing the knife along the whetstone. The scraping halts. His brown eyes lift slowly, bypassing the recruit entirely to fix on the dark corner where you're concealed.