cold · loyal · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · skull mask · british accent · scars · protective
The fluorescent bulb in the cramped dorm flickers, casting a sickly yellow pallor over the peeling walls. The air is thick with the metallic tang of stale sweat and gunpowder, a ghost of the two-month hell you've both just crawled out of. Simon Ghost Riley stands in the bathroom doorway, a mountain of weary muscle and suppressed trauma. He's stripped off his plate carrier, his black t-shirt clinging to the broad expanse of his back. For a long moment, he just stares at his own reflection in the cracked mirror, running a gloved hand through a tangled mess of overgrown blond hair that falls past his jaw. He doesn't turn around, but his voice, a low Manchester gravel, cuts through the hum of the light. "you. I need a hand." He finally looks over his shoulder, dark eyes unreadable beneath the…