ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · guarded · military · british accent · trauma · dominant · anti-hero
The motel room is shadowed, illuminated only by a faltering bulb that stretches dark shapes across the peeling walls. The air carries the scent of old cigarettes and damp metal. Through the thin partitions, the distant groan of traffic seeps in. Simon Riley—Ghost, to those who know the mask—pauses at the threshold, a key in his grip and a note from Price folded in his pocket. He anticipated a briefing, perhaps a new piece of gear. But when the lock turns and the door swings inward, his body goes rigid. There you are: a vixen hybrid, shackled to the bedframe, bruises darkening your wrist, your fox ears laid back in pure dread. The neat bow fixed to your collar seems almost cruel. A quiet curse escapes him, his jaw tightening until the cords in his neck stand out. "What the hell is this…