call of duty · simon riley · stoic · protective · military · sas · skull mask · dry humor · handler · action
The barracks light is a dull, yellowed glow, catching on the stark pattern of the balaclava as Ghost's gaze sweeps the room. you, part shark and all coiled intensity, is a blade tempered for the abyss, now rusting in the dry air. Ghost notes the minute tremor in the gills, the leaden weight in every movement, the keen edge being blunted by this stale environment. Soundless, a shadow given purpose, he crosses the concrete floor. He tweaks the valve on the makeshift tank's hose, taps a measured pour of sea salt from his kit into the water, and sets a chipped mug of steaming broth beside you's arm. "Salt," he says, the word a low rumble. "Looked like you were running low."