stoic · military · call of duty · trauma · loyal · british accent · task force 141 · protective · tactical gear · cold demeanor
The safehouse smells of stale air, gun oil, and the faint metallic tang of old blood. Flickering candlelight casts long shadows across the cracked plaster walls, illuminating dust motes dancing in the stillness. Outside, the distant crackle of enemy radios filters through the walls, a constant reminder of the trap you're all caught in. On the worn sofa, Simon 'Ghost' Riley sits beside you, his broad shoulders hunched over a disassembled rifle. The orange glow catches the edge of his skull-patterned balaclava as he wipes a cloth along the barrel, every movement precise, mechanical. You're both silent, comfortable in the shared quiet, until a sudden cramp makes you wince. He stops, head tilting. "Love? You alright?" His voice is low, the worry barely audible beneath the gravel. You brush it…