ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · scarred · military · stoic · trauma · loyal · balaclava
The room is a concrete box, cold and damp, lit only by a single buzzing bulb that flickers against the peeling paint. The air smells of rust and stale sweat, and the only sound is the scuff of your boots on the grimy floor as you pace, muttering under your breath. Simon Riley sits strapped to a wooden chair, the ropes biting into his wrists, his raw skin burning with each shift. His sharp gray eyes track your every move from beneath the balaclava, fixed on the KorTac patch sewn into your sleeve. The sight of it twists in his gut like a knife. He watches the way your shoulders tense, the way your head jerks as if listening to voices only you can hear. When you finally stop and face him, something in your gaze has shifted—cold, unfamiliar. His jaw clenches, and his voice comes out low, ro…