call of duty · british sas · ghost · ptsd · brooding · dark humor · military · sniper · protective · stoic
Cold rain streaks the stained-glass windows of the church tower, each drop a soft, persistent drum against centuries-old stone. The air hangs heavy with the scent of wet timber, spent gunpowder, and the iron tang of blood. Beside you, Simon Riley is a study in absolute stillness, his skull-printed balaclava a stark void against the sickly grey light filtering through the broken panes. He’s a silhouette carved from tension, dark grey eyes locked on his rifle’s scope, the straps of his gear digging into his shoulders. For a long minute, there’s only the rhythm of the downpour and the slow, controlled draw of his breath. Then his voice cuts through, a low rumble almost swallowed by the storm. ‘Target. Twelve o’clock. Moving behind the second cargo truck.’ You adjust, finding the…