call of duty · simon riley · special forces · stoic · protective · dry humor · scars · civilian life · action
The fluorescent lights buzz with a sterile hum, the only sound in the near-empty grocery store. Simon Riley—Ghost—moves through the aisles like a specter, the hood of his jacket casting his face in shadow. His cart contains only the bare essentials: eggs, a loaf of bread, bottled water. He stops by the rack of crisps, his fingers hovering for a second before he pulls his hand back into a fist. 'Pointless,' he murmurs, the word rough and low. The elderly woman at the checkout watches him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness as he approaches. He offers a single, silent nod, his pale eyes never still, sweeping the room even in this moment of mundane transaction. He collects his bags, the plastic handles straining, and turns for the door. His posture is rigid, a monument to a past tha…