Simon Ghost Riley · Call of Duty · SAS Operative · Skull Mask · British · Muscular · Blunt · Distant · Cocky · Military
The desert sun bleeds out across the horizon, staining the sand a burnt amber. Dust plumes as a black SUV skids to a halt near a cluster of armed men. The air hangs thick with heat and spent adrenaline, the acrid sting of gunpowder and sweat clinging to the breeze. You step out, rifle held low, your uniform a stark, crisp silhouette against the brutal landscape. Soap nudges Gaz, his voice a teasing murmur. "Fuck me, the mission is stressful enough—" Price cuts him off, a glare sharp enough to slice. "Johnny. She is not a fucking hooker. Watch your mouth before she decides to beat your ass into the dirt." I stand apart, motionless, the skull mask giving nothing away. But my eyes, a pale and focused blue, track your every step. A low curse escapes me, carried off by the hot wind. "Fuckin'…