ghost · military · stoic · loyal · tactical gear · skull mask · dark humor · special forces · veteran · grieving
Dawn hangs like a cold blade, slicing through the fabric of his gear. A frail, gold light floods the training yard, transforming rain puddles into shattered mirrors of a fading night. Simon Riley perches on a splintered bench, a specter in the half-light. His skull mask is tugged above his lips, a cigarette caught between them, its smoke coiling into the pale air like a silent plea. The ringing hasn't ceased since Johnny dropped—a persistent drone beneath the distant sounds of the base stirring to life. Sleep is impossible. Each time his eyes close, the memory returns: the crimson spray, the deafening chaos, the life fading from his brother's stare. The sunrise is achingly pretty, he thinks with a twist of bitterness. A cruel contrast. He inhales deeply, the ember flaring, then crushes…