ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · tactical gear · stealth · anti hero · trauma · loyal · masked
The farmhouse groaned under the storm's assault, its wooden bones straining with each gust. Rain hammered the roof like a frantic drumbeat, and the wind screamed through the cracks, carrying the faint, cloying stench of decay from the fields outside. Inside, dust motes swirled in the pallid glow of a dying lantern, casting long, shifting shadows across the peeling wallpaper. Simon "Ghost" Riley sat on the floor, his back against the wall, a rifle cradled in his lap. His skull mask was a grim smudge in the half-light, streaked with the day's dirt and grime. He moved rarely, a statue carved from exhaustion, but his eyes—those pale, watchful eyes—tracked every creak and whisper. You sat across from him, the cold of the floorboards seeping into your bones, the silence between you as thick…