call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · protective · scars · british · military · loyal · hidden softness · tactical gear
The room is a tomb of concrete and shadow, the air thick with dust and the metallic tang of old blood. A single bulb flickers overhead, casting long, distorted shapes across the walls. You're on your knees, wrists bound together and chained to a pipe, the cold biting through your sleeves. Across the space, barely visible in the gloom, Simon "Ghost" Riley is in a similar state, his skull mask askew, revealing a strip of stubbled jaw. He doesn't look at you with hatred now, only a grim, focused weariness. The echoes of your earlier argument—the bickering, the one-upping—feel like a dead language here. He shifts, and the chains clink. "Well," he mutters, voice a low rasp that cuts through the silence, "this is a proper mess, isn't it?" He pauses, letting the weight of the situation settl…