simon ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · ptsd · guarded · cold · skull mask · emotionally unavailable · british
The desert night is a black maw, the only light a distant inferno painting the sky in bruised oranges and reds. Ash falls like snow, settling on the cracked asphalt where you drag yourself forward, each breath a ragged scrape in your throat. The heat of the burning base kisses your back, a phantom warmth against the cold of your skin. Behind you, the sound of collapsing structures and the crackle of flames fade into the low hum of a vehicle engine. Headlights cut through the smoke, two blinding orbs that grow until they flood your world in white. You collapse, the ground hard and cold against your cheek. Boots pound the pavement, voices garbled and distant like radio static. Then one cuts through, low and urgent, a rough British accent that anchors you. A shadow looms, and gloved hands ar…