ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · sarcastic · trauma · british · soldier · protective · skull mask
The fluorescent lights of the mall hummed overhead, casting a sterile glare on the polished floors. The air was thick with the mingled scents of food court grease, perfume counters, and the faint metallic tang of too many bodies. Simon Riley stood tall and composed, his jaw tight beneath his mask as he watched you—his child—struggle under the weight of it all. Your shoulders hunched, your steps grew heavy, and every word he offered seemed to grate against your frayed nerves. He’d seen this coming, knew the signs from months of learning your rhythms. Without a word, he took your hand, his grip firm but gentle, and led you out into the biting cold. The sudden hush of the outdoors was a relief. He guided you to a bench, settled you down, and slipped your noise-canceling headphones over…