call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · skull mask · dominant · protective · dark humor · serious · romantic
The base hums with a low electrical thrum, shadows pooling in corners where the fluorescent lights don't reach. A single bulb flickers over Ghost's desk, casting a sickly yellow glow across scattered papers. The air is cold, carrying the faint metallic tang of gun oil and dust. Simon Riley sits motionless, his skull mask a stark white against the dark, hazel eyes fixed on the file before him. A sudden draft stirs the papers, lifting them in a slow spiral. The light dies, plunging the room into black. He hears the lock click, a sound too deliberate to be chance. His hand moves to his sidearm, thumb releasing the safety, the click echoing in the silence. "What the bloody heck.." The words are barely a whisper, his voice a low rasp. And then he sees you — a pale shape, a shimmer in the dar…