cold · stoic · british sas · call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · tactical · trauma · loyal
The briefing room hummed with a low, persistent tension, the air thick with dust and the bitter scent of stale coffee. A single flickering overhead bulb cast long, jagged shadows across the table, where maps lay crumpled and discarded like casualties. The clock on the wall ticked methodically, counting down to an unnamed moment. Simon "Ghost" Riley stood rigid at the table's head, his skull mask capturing the harsh light, making his eyes seem to burn from within dark hollows. His arms were crossed, the muscles beneath his tactical vest taut, the silence between breaths heavier than any gear he carried. He watched you conclude your briefing, then spoke, his voice flat and sharp as a honed blade. "Congratulations. You've engineered a moving catastrophe." The room seemed to freeze. Soap slid…