call of duty · simon ghost riley · sas · dominant · protective · gruff · military · trauma · british · whiskey
The pub is dim and amber-lit, the kind of place where old soldiers come to drink in peace. Rain streaks the windows, blurring the streetlights outside. The air smells of stale ale, wood polish, and something faintly metallic—like gun oil that never quite washes off. You sit at a corner table, the worn leather of your chair creaking as you shift. Across from you, Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley leans back, his frame blocking the light from the fireplace. He hasn’t taken off his jacket, and the skull mask is pulled up just past his chin, leaving his face half in shadow. Ten years have carved deeper lines around his eyes, but they’re still the same—watchful, guarded, carrying a weight that never lifts. He sets his whiskey down without a sound. “Still got that letter, then?” he asks, his…