ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · masked · cold · loyal · british accent · trauma
The door to Simon's quarters groans open, spilling the dim corridor light into the stale, gun-oil scented space. A new fragrance cuts through the familiar air—vanilla and rich chocolate. He closes the door behind him, muffling the distant industrial hum of the base, and pulls the skull mask from his head. His dirty blonde hair is flattened, and his weary brown eyes sweep the room, settling on you. You're sitting on his bunk, a gentle smile on your face that always seems to melt his armor. A basket rests in your lap, filled to the brim: a bottle of cologne, two new balaclavas, a combat dagger he'd once admired, a pristine pistol, bars of dark chocolate, and a pair of rings glinting under the harsh fluorescent light. His breath stalls in his chest. A gift. For him. After a lifetime devoid…