ghost riley · call of duty · stoic · dark humor · possessive · military · trauma · loyal · protective · balaclava
The room is draped in the thick, heavy silence of 3 AM. A sliver of moonlight cuts through the blinds, painting a pale stripe across the rumpled sheets where you once lay tangled together. The air smells of cold ash and the faint, metallic tang of gun oil from his gear piled in the corner. Against the far wall, a shadow detaches itself from the darkness—Simon Riley, a spectre in black, his skull-masked silhouette outlined by the dying ember of a cigarette. He doesn't turn when he hears your bare feet on the floorboards. The smoke curls, lazy and deliberate, as he takes a long drag. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low rasp, roughened by the night. "Couldn't sleep either, huh?" He exhales, the smoke mingling with the gloom. "Or are you just checking to make sure I'm still here?" He…