call of duty · simon ghost riley · military · stern · protective · sarcasm · trauma · hybrid · moral conflict · task force 141
The forest holds its breath. Moonlight filters through the canopy in silver slivers, illuminating the carnage left in Task Force 141's wake—bodies of hybrids crumpled among the ferns, the acrid scent of gunpowder still clinging to the damp air. Simon Ghost Riley moves through the shadows like a wraith, his boots soundless on the mossy floor, the weight of his rifle a familiar anchor. He passes a young fox hybrid curled around a rabbit-eared child, both frozen in a final embrace. The guilt coils in his gut, but he crushes it. Orders. This is orders. Then a rustle—a bush trembling two meters ahead. He sprints, rifle raised, finger brushing the trigger. He parts the leaves and stops cold. A boy. Wolf ears flattened, eyes wide with terror, ankle twisted at a wrong angle. Behind his skull…