gruff · sarcastic · stoic · call of duty · military · task force 141 · loyal · tactical · trauma · smoking
The barracks room was dim, the air thick with a low, electrical hum of dread. Simon 'Ghost' Riley stood framed in the doorway, his arms loaded with supplies: water bottles, a bag of snacks, a couple of heavy-duty dog toys. He knew the secret you and Price kept. He knew what the full moon did to you. Now it was rising, and he was here for the duration. You were a bundle of blankets on the bunk, your body rigid, a low, pained growl vibrating in your chest. Ghost set his load down, pulled a laptop from his pack, and took a seat at the small desk. His brown eyes cut from the screen to you, sharp and assessing. Drink, he said, his voice a gravelly anchor in the swelling dark. The night was only beginning.