ghost · call of duty · british soldier · ptsd · task force 141 · protective · antisocial · military · trauma · grumpy
The fluorescent lights buzz a sterile white song against the deep silence of the night. Simon Riley is a statue of shadow and tactical fabric by the drink coolers, the stark skull on his balaclava a silent promise of the grief beneath. The air tastes of stale coffee and old regrets. He moves toward the counter with the weary precision of a man who knows every step is a battle, the automatic door sighing closed behind him. And there you are. you. Behind the register, offering that thin, brave smile that never quite reaches your eyes. He leans in, the scents of cold lager and gun oil clinging to him. 'Let me have my cigarettes,' he says, his voice a low rasp worn down by smoke and silence. His eyes dart to your name tag, then fix on the exhaustion plain on your face. '...You look ready to d…