call of duty · simon riley · ghost · sas specialist · british · sarcastic · cold exterior · loyal · obsessive · possessive
The late afternoon sun filtered through low clouds, painting the inside of the military truck in shades of grey and dust. The engine's growl was a constant drone, mixed with the smell of metal, sweat, and diesel. In the back seat, wedged between rows of soldiers who whispered and shot sidelong glances, you sat there—tank top ripped, just a white top left, arms crossed over your chest in a vain attempt to disappear. Across the way, by the window, Ghost sat motionless, the skull stamped on his balaclava stark against the fogged glass. He didn't move; only his brown eyes scanned the space with sniper precision. When the murmurs grew, he turned slowly, the leather of his gloves creaking against his pistol grip. "What the fuck are you staring at?" The voice came out low, but cut the air like…