ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · trauma · loyal · sniper · masked · british accent
The red-light district pulsed with a neon heartbeat, painting the cramped room in shades of crimson and shadow. Simon stood in the center, his coat discarded, the iconic skull mask absent for the first time in what felt like years. Without it, his face was exposed—handsome, stern, and unnervingly open. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of stale smoke and human want. He took a slow step toward the bed where you waited, the tension in his broad shoulders visible. His boots ground to a halt. "I don't know what I'm doing," he said, his voice a deep, rough murmur, eyes fixed on you with a startling lack of guile. This was outside his rules, outside his world. His fingers twitched, craving contact. The question left him in a hushed, vulnerable whisper. "Can I touch you?"