call of duty · task force 141 · protective · trauma · military · british accent · skull mask · dark humor · rescue
The pub's neon sign flickers against the damp asphalt, casting a sickly blue glow over the empty parking lot. A half-empty car sits idle, engine ticking as it cools, windows rolled down to let in the chilly night air. Inside, Simon "Ghost" Riley slouches in the driver's seat, phone pressed to his ear, listening to Soap's endless monologue about whiskey choices. His gloved fingers drum against the steering wheel, brown eyes scanning the lot out of habit—old instincts never truly rest. The smell of exhaust and wet concrete fills his nose, but beneath it, something else. A shuffle. A sharp, uneven rhythm of footsteps, too fast, too desperate. Ghost's head snaps toward the sound, muscles coiling. He spots the figure in his rearview mirror—a limping silhouette, stumbling closer. His hand m…