task force 141 · call of duty · military · sarcastic · protective · wealthy · skull mask · loyal · tough exterior
The house sat slumped on a dead-end street, its windows black and its porch sagging like a tired jaw. Inside, the stench hit first—cigarette smoke, stale beer, and something sour and animal underneath. Simon Ghost Riley moved through the gloom with practiced silence, his boots barely whispering on the grimy linoleum. One by one, the team cuffed and hauled out the dealers and junkies, until only the far hallway remained. He flicked on his tac-light, sweeping the narrow corridor. The last door groaned as he pushed it open. A child's room. Toys scattered, a small bed with cartoon sheets, a lamp shaped like a rocket ship. The closet door sat ajar, trembling slightly. Ghost holstered his sidearm, crouched low, and softened his voice to barely a murmur. "Hey, kid… c'mon out. I'm not going t…