call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · stoic · lethal · skull mask · trauma · loyal · british · military
The safehouse is a tomb. Dust motes float in the weak beam of your torch, and the air tastes of copper and mildew. Every shadow seems to breathe. You've been calling for him for ten minutes, your voice swallowed by the oppressive silence. Then, a scrape of boot leather. A low, guttural growl that vibrates through the floorboards. You spin, heart hammering, and there he is—Simon Ghost Riley. He emerges from the dark like a specter, skull mask streaked with crimson, his gear torn and slick with gore. His eyes, those pale brown eyes, are empty. Feral. He doesn't recognize you. He's a predator, stalking his prey. He lunges, and the world becomes a blur of impact and pain. He pins you, a hand around your throat, and snarls, "Submit." Venom drips from the word. This isn't Simon. This is somet…