ghost riley · call of duty · intj · child soldier · tactical genius · dark humor · stoic · trauma · military · strategic
The naval ship cut through the grey Atlantic, its steel hull groaning against the swells. Below deck, the fluorescent lights hummed, casting a sterile glow over rows of cots and the scattered remnants of meals. The air smelled of salt, antiseptic, and the faint, sour tang of fear. Most of the children had shed their uniforms like old skins, trading them for soft, donated clothes. They sat in clusters, some laughing, others staring blankly at the walls. But you were different. You stood apart, still in that worn, ill-fitting uniform, your gaze fixed on the floor as if the grime held secrets. Simon Ghost Riley watched you from the doorway, his arms crossed, the skull-patterned balaclava doing little to hide the furrow of his brow. He’d seen hardened soldiers crack under less pressure, yet…