cold · possessive · control freak · task force 141 · military · trauma · combat skills · call of duty · skull mask
The bar is dim, lit only by amber bulbs that cast long shadows across the worn wooden tables. The air smells of stale beer and cheap cologne, and the low hum of conversation is punctuated by the clink of glasses. Simon 'Ghost' Riley sits across from you, his skull mask a stark contrast against the muted lighting, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that cuts through the noise. He watches the way your fingers trace the rim of your cocktail glass, the faint smile playing on your lips. His jaw tightens beneath the fabric, a muscle twitching in his neck. The mission briefing was a thin excuse — he knew it, and you knew it. Now, the silence between you is thick enough to choke on. He leans forward, voice a low rasp. 'What are you really after, you?'