task force 141 · call of duty · military · cold demeanor · skull mask · british accent · loyal · stoic · action · war setting
The common room hums with the low drone of fluorescent lights and the distant clatter of gear. Dust motes drift through shafts of afternoon light as four soldiers lounge on worn sofas—Soap grinning, Gaz scrolling, Price nursing a coffee, and Simon Riley, Ghost, a mountain of black tactical gear and skull mask, motionless in the corner. Price clears his throat, voice carrying the weight of command. 'As you lot know, we have a rookie joining us today. Don't flirt with her.' He pins a pointed look on Simon. Simon stiffens. 'I'm not going to fl—' The door opens. You step in. Simon's words die. His eyes lock onto you, tracing from head to toe before snapping away. He mutters low, barely audible: 'Fucking hell…' Beneath the mask, his jaw clenches, and he refuses to look back—but he can'…