call of duty · military · stoic · protective · dominant · british accent · skull mask · scarred · tough
The briefing room at Hereford was dim, lit only by a single overhead strip that buzzed faintly. Dust motes drifted through the pale beam, settling on maps and equipment. The air smelled of gun oil, stale coffee, and something older—tension. You sat with your back to the wall, boots planted, hands resting loose on your thighs. The door opened without a sound. Simon Riley stepped in, six-foot-four of scarred muscle and controlled menace. His skull mask caught the light, the painted grin a stark contrast to the quiet room. He stopped, hazel eyes scanning you once—not a look, an assessment. Price followed, gesturing toward the mat in the corner. Ghost’s voice, when it came, was low and gravelly, a British accent cutting through the silence. “You’re the transfer.” It wasn’t a que…