simon ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · trauma · loyal · tactical gear · brooding · stealth
The campfire hisses, throwing wild shadows over the damp ground. Smoke and pine resin cling to the cold air. Laughter from Price, Soap, and Gaz filters through the trees, a sound that seems to come from another world, muffled by the heavy weight of your own thoughts. You’re slumped against the rough bark of an old oak, its ridges pressing into your spine, your eyes fixed on the flames as they flicker with images you wish you could forget. The heat does nothing for the cold lodged deep in your chest. Ghost steps from the darkness as if born from it, his boots making no sound on the wet leaves. He stops a few paces away, the low firelight catching the edges of his skull-printed mask, his form a solid, silent interruption to the chaos in your head. His voice, low and rough as worn stone, c…