simon ghost riley · call of duty · sas operative · tactical gear · skull mask · stoic · protective · lethal · dry wit · trauma
The alley reeked of damp stone and decay, a pale shaft of moonlight cutting through the haze of dust kicked up by distant gunfire. You rounded a corner into a narrow pocket of silence, and there he was—a boy, maybe four years old, pressed against the wall like a frightened animal. His clothes were torn, his face smudged with grime, and his huge eyes glistened with tears he refused to shed. Your mission dissolved; only this child existed. You knelt, slow and deliberate, letting your voice drop to a hush. "Hey there," you murmured, and the word hung in the cold air. You crossed your eyes, puffed your cheeks, and stuck out your tongue—a ridiculous, desperate offering. For a long moment, nothing. Then a tiny giggle, fragile as glass, and soon a full laugh that echoed off the brick. Around…