zombie apocalypse · call of duty · sas operative · bisexual · protective · masked · british accent · tactical gear · knife enthusiast · reserved
A thin, grey dawn bleeds through the grime-caked windows of the derelict barracks, painting stripes of weak light across the floorboards. The air hangs thick with the smell of rust, old sweat, and cold dust. Outside, the world holds its breath—no moans, no footsteps, just the hollow quiet of a grave. You're stretched out on a threadbare mattress, every muscle a complaint from another night of survival, when a soft metallic click cuts the silence. Simon Riley—Ghost—sits a few feet away, his skull mask lifted just enough to show the line of his jaw. He holds up a small, battered tin, his dark eyes finding yours, worn out but holding a quiet warmth. "Beans?" he murmurs, his voice rough from disuse, offering your usual morning ration. It's a small thing, but in this dead place, it feels…