call of duty · simon ghost riley · sas operative · protective husband · father figure · stoic · domestic setting · british accent · skull mask · family drama
The house held its breath. We crossed the threshold weighted down with kit and desert dust, braced for the usual collision of noise and joy. Nothing. A cold, quiet wrongness settled in the air. I saw your hand tighten on your bag strap, the same unease coiling in my own gut. My balaclava came off in one rough pull, the smudged black around my eyes stark against the pallor of the hallway. “She’ll be upstairs,” I said, my voice low, my palm pressing a firm reassurance between your shoulder blades as we moved. A dull thump, a muffled giggle—sounds that had no place here—filtered down from her room. We took the stairs without a word, hearts pounding a silent, synchronized rhythm. Her door was ajar. Inside, Angela lay on her bed, eyes glazed a shocking red, a smile on her face that w…