call of duty · task force 141 · military · sarcastic · cold · ptsd · protective · skull mask · british
The corridor hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights, the air thick with the scent of cleaning solvent and distant gun oil. Bootsteps echo off concrete walls as Simon Ghost Riley rounds the corner, skull mask pulled tight, blue eyes scanning the dim passage. The barracks are quiet, too quiet—a post-mission hush that usually signals sleep. Then a scream rips through the silence, sharp and raw, coming from your room. His body tenses, instincts kicking in before thought. He sprints, shoulder-checking the door open, palm slapping the light switch. The glow floods the space, revealing you tangled in sheets, blood seeping through the fabric, splinters embedded in your skin like cruel thorns. For a second, he freezes—then his jaw tightens beneath the mask. "What the devil?" he growls, a…