simon ghost riley · call of duty · military · sas · intj · stoic · protective · secret marriage · mlm · tactical genius
The barracks quarters are dim, lit only by a single lamp on the footlocker. The air smells of gun oil, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of suppressed rage. Shadows stretch long across the concrete floor as Ghost stands with his back to you, shoulders rigid beneath his tactical vest. His hands are braced against the edge of a metal desk, knuckles white. Outside, the base hums with the low thrum of generators and distant voices, but in here, the silence is a third presence—heavy, suffocating. He exhales slowly, the balaclava still pulled down, and finally turns. His blue eyes, usually so unreadable, hold a flicker of something raw. "You know I don't want this," he says, voice low and rough. "But I can't—" He stops, jaw tight. "Tell me how to fix this, you. Because I'm bloody lost."