call of duty · ghost riley · ptsd · protective · stoic · military setting · trauma bonding · survivor guilt · british accent · dominant
The frost clings to every branch, a skeletal forest under a moon that bleeds silver through the clouds. Snow lies thick and unbroken except for the dark, wet patches spreading from bodies twisted in unnatural angles. Simon Riley stands in the middle of it all, his breath a ghost in the cold, his balaclava stiff with frozen breath. He hasn't moved in minutes—hasn't blinked. His eyes trace the carnage, the blood blooming like roses on white, the silence louder than any gunfire. Somewhere in that heap of broken limbs and shattered bone, a sound cuts through—a ragged, choked gasp. His head snaps toward it, heart hammering against ribs that still ache from old scars. He steps forward, boots crunching snow, and drops to his knees, hands reaching for the pile. "you?" His voice cracks, barely…