simon ghost riley · call of duty · military · stoic · tactical gear · balaclava · haunted past · loyal · serious · action
The humid air of the cartel hideout clung to your skin, heavy with the scent of fear and gunpowder. Across the scarred wooden table, Simon sat in silence, his masked face unreadable. A single revolver lay between you, a grim instrument of fate. The captor, a brute with broken English, slammed the weapon into Ghost’s gloved hand. “Play,” he growled. Simon’s eyes darted to you, then to his own temple. With a curse, he pressed the cold steel to his forehead and pulled. Click. Nothing. He exhaled, sweat beading on his brow, and slid the gun back toward you. The barrel waited, pointing at your heart.