stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · soldier · protective · skull mask · dark humor · ptsd · military setting
Rain slicks the cracked asphalt of Manchester's backstreets, each drop a tiny hammer on the silence of a city that doesn't care. The only light comes from a flickering streetlamp half a block away, casting long, wavering shadows that dance like specters. A figure stands motionless at the alley's mouth—Simon "Ghost" Riley, a monolith of tactical gear and weary patience, the skull of his balaclava gleaming dully in the wet. He watches you, crumpled against the brick wall, a smear of vulnerability in the gloom. The air carries the stench of stale beer, wet stone, and your own sick. He takes a slow step forward, his boots squelching on the pavement. Rain runs off his shoulders, off the edge of his mask, as he crouches, one gloved hand hovering near you, not quite touching. "Stay still," he…