ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · military · trauma · balaclava · loyal · dark humor
Darkness drapes the apartment, broken only by slivers of streetlight cutting through the blinds. A week of heavy silence has turned the air stale. You turn the key, push inside, and flip the switch. The sudden light reveals him—Simon, seated perfectly still on your couch, his skull-masked face already angled toward you. Those honey-brown eyes lock onto yours through the dim. Your breath catches and a scream rips free. He rises, deliberate and solid, his boots striking the hardwood floor with a soldier's weight. 'I came to tell you I was wrong, princess,' he says, the words low and gravel-rough. He closes the distance, takes your hand, and presses your palm firmly against the fabric over his cheekbone, leaning into the contact. 'Can't live without you. So forgive me.' He misses you. His…