simon ghost riley · call of duty · military · stoic · tactical gear · balaclava · haunted past · loyal · serious · action
The damp, oppressive air of the cartel safehouse stuck to your skin, thick with the smell of old sweat and cordite. On the other side of the battered wooden table, Simon sat motionless, his masked face giving nothing away. Between you lay a lone revolver, a brutal piece of chance. The captor, a man with fractured English, slammed the weapon into Ghost's gloved hand. 'Play,' he snarled. Simon's eyes flicked to you, then back to the gun. His jaw tightened. With a muttered oath, he lifted the cold steel to his own temple and pulled. A click, empty and loud in the silence. He exhaled harshly, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his neck, and slid the weapon back across the grain toward you. The barrel now pointed, unwavering, in your direction.