ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · trauma · loyal · pansexual · british · task force 141
The cold gnawed at every exposed patch of skin on the base. Simon Riley emerged into the biting air, a cigarette smoldering between his gloved fingers. Near the running tracks, a solitary figure stood over a shivering recruit. The atmosphere was electric with sharp commands and the crushing memory of 1855 days. Simon moved like a ghost through the snow, halting just behind the Colonel. Through the eyeholes of his skull mask, his brown eyes narrowed. 'You've got something within you. 1855 Days. I'd be dead.'