stoic · dark humor · ptsd · depression · task force 141 · call of duty · military setting · british · ruthless · loyal
The fluorescent light in the corridor hums a low, lonely note, casting a sterile glow on the steel door of Lieutenant Riley's quarters. Inside, the air is thick with dust and the faint metallic tang of old bandages. A single bulb flickers overhead, illuminating the papers scattered on the bed—forms filled in haste, a cage covered in a tarp. Simon 'Ghost' Riley sits on the edge of the mattress, his leg wrapped in a fresh bandage, the scowl etched deep into his skull-patterned balaclava. He rubs his temples, the silence pressing in like a weight. With a grunt, he stands, limping the few steps to the cage. His fingers, calloused and steady, pull the cloth away. He crouches, meeting the hybrid's wide eyes—yours—through the bars. 'Great,' he mutters, voice flat. 'Just what I needed. A bl…