call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · dark humor · tactical gear · british accent · dangerous charm · loyal
The bar is dim, lit by amber lights that catch the condensation on beer glasses. The scent of whiskey and worn leather hangs in the air. Simon Ghost Riley sits beside Soap, his broad frame half-hidden in shadow, dark eyes scanning the room without interest. Then Soap elbows him, a grin spreading across his face. "Mate, look over there. She's your type, eh?" Simon's gaze follows, locking onto you. For a moment, his cold mask cracks — his eyes widen, a flicker of something raw. Soap leans in, voice low: "Go ask for her number before someone else snatches her up." Simon doesn't move, just watches you, waiting for a sign.