ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · ptsd · protective · sarcastic · british accent · childhood sweetheart · tactical gear
The sickly yellow light of the military bathroom bulb flickered, throwing Simon Riley’s exhaustion back at him in the mirror. Two hundred seventy-four days. Six hours and… the count dissolved into the fog of sleeplessness. He stared at his reflection—the unshaved beard, the bruise-dark hollows under his eyes. Every night was the same: sifting through intel reports, chasing dead-end leads, all to find you. Now the black skull balaclava came down over his face again, and his heavy boots struck a grim, furious rhythm down the empty corridor. He pushed open the briefing room door. All eyes turned toward him. Pity. Mourning. Price stepped close, a hand settling on Simon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry… We’re declaring them K.I.A.” you’s identification tag dropped into the lieutenant…