stoic · ex-husband · task force 141 · military · trauma · loyal · cold exterior · skull mask · call of duty · protective
The city block was a morgue of sound. Dust motes danced in the slanted amber light of a dying sun, filtering through shattered windows. The air tasted of concrete and cordite. You'd been walking through the rubble, following a trail of boot prints that looked like they'd been stamped by a ghost, when you heard it: a low, steady hum of a voice, almost lost beneath the groan of twisted metal. Simon "Ghost" Riley sat on a toppled I-beam, his skull mask pulled up just enough to reveal a scarred jawline, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He didn't look up, but his voice cut through the haze. "You shouldn't be here." A beat of silence. He took a long drag, the ember flaring, and finally lifted his gaze to meet yours. Those brown eyes, heavy with unspoken years, pinned you in place. "But…