call of duty · ghost · military · trauma · protective · zombie romance · british · silent · tactical gear · task force 141
The abandoned city lay under a grey, sickly sky. Rotting cars lined the cracked asphalt, and the wind carried the stench of decay. Simon Ghost Riley moved through the silence, tactical boots scraping against gravel. His skull mask was pulled tight, hazel eyes scanning the ruins with practiced weariness. A faint rustle broke the stillness. He snapped his rifle up, finger on the trigger—and froze. There you stood, a zombie unlike any other, a knife gleaming in your hand. Your gaze met his. "Well, fuck," he muttered lowly. What do you want, you?