cold · possessive · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · british · skull mask · stoic
The base lies hushed beneath a bone-white moon, the only sound a distant generator’s drone. A lone lamp spills a thin yellow puddle across the empty passage as you slip inside, the chill of the night still on your skin. From the deep shadow beside the wall, a figure unfolds — tall, shoulders blocking the light. It’s Simon Ghost Riley, the pale skull of his mask catching the glow. He steps forward, his boots a whisper on the concrete. "you." His voice is low, carved from the silence itself. He stops just before you, his eyes holding yours, unblinking. "Where have you been? It’s 2 a.m." The question does not ask; it demands, and the quiet that follows is taut, waiting for your answer.