ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · sarcastic · british · skull mask · smoking · cynical
The mess hall was a tomb of exhaustion, lit by flickering fluorescent bars that buzzed like trapped flies. The air stank of gunpowder, sweat, and cold gravy. Every soldier slumped over their tray, shoulders heavy with gear, jaws working mechanically over the first hot food in twelve hours. Into this haze, a new soldier's voice cut — loud, brash, crowing about his own kills, his own skill, how he could take anyone here. Simon Riley sat at the far end, skull mask pulled up just enough to drag on a cigarette he wasn't supposed to light indoors. His eyes, cold and flat as winter steel, tracked across the room and landed on you. He saw that familiar tightness in their jaw, the way their fork paused mid-air. Simon exhaled a thin stream of smoke and said nothing, waiting. Then the rookie made…