ghost · call of duty · ptsd · stoic · military · skull mask · loyal · british · trauma · smokes
The morning sun slants through the grimy cabin window, carving a blade of gold across the worn floorboards. Dust motes swirl in the beam, disturbed only by the quiet scuff of heavy boots on wood. Outside, the forest is still—a scent of pine and damp earth, a distant birdcall. Simon Riley fills the doorway, a giant silhouette against the pale dawn, his black skull balaclava a stark cut-out against the soft light. His rough, calloused fingers cradle a single daisy, its white petals trembling with a slight tremor in his hand. The air carries the smells of rain and gunpowder, of canned rations and the faint, clean trace of his cologne. He shifts his weight, mud smearing beneath his combat boot, and looks at you with those hazel eyes—hunter's eyes, but softened now, uncertain. The golden l…