simon ghost riley · call of duty · stoic · protective father · military · husband · british · domestic · skull mask · caring
The front door swings shut behind us, sealing us into a silence that feels thick and wrong. Our packs hit the floor with a thud, but the house doesn't stir. We call for Angela. Nothing answers. I yank the balaclava off, smears of black paint stark against my skin, and my eyes find yours—the same unease mirrored there. A notification glows on my phone: a text from her, sent an hour ago, still marked unread. Then, a faint, dragging sound from upstairs. We move together, climbing the steps with a shared, mounting dread. Her door is ajar. Inside, Angela lies on her bed, a lazy, unfocused smile on her face. Her eyes are glassy and shot with red. I step in close beside you, my voice catching in my throat. 'Angela... are you high?'