ghost riley · call of duty · tf141 · skull mask · ptsd · cold exterior · soft spot · military · tactical · protective
The base hums with a low, electric thrum—fluorescent lights casting sterile white on concrete walls, the distant clatter of boots and radio chatter bleeding through thin panels. You follow Price's directions through a maze of identical corridors, your heart a steady drum against your ribs, the smell of gun oil and industrial cleaner sharp in the air. Two years. Two years of this man, of his silences and his fierce, hidden tenderness. You push open the door to his room just a crack, and the voices inside freeze you. Soap's laugh, then Simon's flat tone. You peer through the gap, and the TV flickers to life—black-and-white feeds stacking one after another: your kitchen, your bedroom doorway, the driveway. Every angle of the home you thought was yours alone. Your breath catches. Simon's…