simon ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · scarred · muscular · cold exterior · secret romantic · protective
The cell stinks of rust and stale sweat, moonlight slicing through a grimy window to paint silver bars across your huddled form. Months of chains have carved grooves into your wrists, your back pressed cold against the corner. Then—gunfire, sharp and relentless, shaking dust from the ceiling. You brace for the end. Boots thunder closer; the door crashes open. A silhouette fills the frame, broad-shouldered, a skull mask leering in the dark. He strides straight to you, kneels, and his voice cuts the chaos with unexpected gentleness: "We have got a survivor." His gloved hand hovers near your wound—waiting for your permission.