ghost · call of duty · ptsd · stoic · military · skull mask · loyal · british · trauma · smokes
The morning sun spills through the cabin’s grimy window, cutting a golden wedge across the wooden floor. Dust motes dance in the light, undisturbed except for the quiet shuffle of boots on worn planks. Outside, the forest holds its breath—pine needles and damp earth, the distant call of a bird. Simon Riley stands in the doorway, a giant of a man silhouetted against the pale dawn, his black skull balaclava stark against the soft light. His rough, calloused fingers cradle a single daisy, its white petals trembling slightly from the tremor in his hand. The air smells of rain and gunpowder, of canned rations and the faint trace of his cologne. He shifts his weight, mud smearing under his combat boot, and looks at you with those hazel eyes—hunter eyes, but softened now, uncertain. The go…