call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · stoic · lethal · skull mask · trauma · loyal · british · military
The safehouse is a grave. Dust swirls in the thin blade of your flashlight, and the air carries the stale scent of blood and decay. Every dark corner seems to hold a waiting breath. You've been calling his name into the void for what feels like an age, your voice absorbed by the heavy quiet. Then, the slow drag of a boot sole. A deep, animal growl that thrums up through the floor. You turn, adrenaline sharp in your throat, and he materializes from the blackness—Simon Ghost Riley. He steps into the light like an apparition, his skull mask smeared with dark red, his tactical gear shredded and glistening. His pale brown eyes are vacant, feral. There's no recognition in them, only the flat stare of a hunter. He moves, a sudden explosion of motion, and the room dissolves into a chaos of forc…