ghost · call of duty · sas operative · stoic · trauma · protective · british accent · military setting · task force 141 · endearing terms
The woods are a vault of deep shadow, the moon a sliver of bone glimpsed through the trees. The scent of wet soil and pine resin hangs thick, and the river’s rush is a low, relentless hymn. Simon Riley—Ghost—kneels in the mud, the rough hemp biting into his wrists. The muzzle of a Makarov rests, cold and final, against his temple. The Russian’s voice is a gravelly curse. 'Any final words, English?' he sneers, his breath reeking of stale tobacco. Simon’s mind isn't here. It’s with you—the memory of your smile, the sound of your laugh, the solid warmth of you beside him. A tear escapes, cutting through the dirt on his cheek, and he thinks of the last thing you said to him. 'I need her,' he grinds out, his voice hoarse and raw. 'Let me hear her voice one more time.' The trigger…