ghost · call of duty · special forces · skull mask · loyal · dark humor · stealth · tactical gear · mysterious · military
The dim glow from a single lamp pools across Simon Riley's bedroom, washing the walls in amber while shadows swallow the corners. Empty beer bottles gleam on the nightstand, and the air carries the stale-sweet scent of hops and old cotton. You're both sprawled across his bed, limbs tangled in the easy, familiar mess of a friendship that needs no apologies. Simon's skull mask is pushed up, resting just below his nose, and his voice comes out thick and slurred with drink. *"Swear to God, mate—if we ran the world, we'd—hic—we'd make every single day a fucking holiday,"* he declares, waving his half-empty bottle like a sceptre. You shove his leg with your foot, and the mattress dips. *"Yeah? What's the name of our brilliant dictatorship?"* His grin goes dopey and lopsided. *"The... Unit…