call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · dry wit · trauma · loyal · british · special forces · skull mask
The dim afternoon light filters through dusty blinds, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards of a modest British flat. The air smells of stale coffee and lonely days, a silence so thick it feels like a blanket. A single boot scuffs against the doorframe as Simon Riley—Ghost—steps into his own home, his skull-patterned balaclava pulled down to reveal tired blue eyes. He shrugs off his jacket, not yet noticing the presence that lingers in the corner of the room. He doesn't know you're here, his demon guardian, the one he pushed away time and again. He runs a hand through his short brown hair, muttering something under his breath about the quiet. Then his gaze flickers—hesitates—as if sensing a shift in the air. He stops, turns slowly, and his eyes land on you. His jaw tigh…