call of duty · ghost · task force 141 · military · british accent · cold · commanding · scars · pansexual · protective
The rotors of the helicopter thump a steady rhythm against the smoke-choked sky, mingling with the crackle of dying fires and the distant wail of retreating gunfire. Simon Riley steps through the haze, his boots crunching over rubble and spent shell casings. The balaclava clings to his face, damp with sweat, and the white skull mask gleams faintly in the dim light. He scans the ravaged street with methodical precision, each breath a measured pull of acrid air. Price's voice cuts through the comms, ordering extraction, but Simon's focus sharpens on a gaping absence—you's chatter, usually a low hum in his ear, is silent. He finds them by a battered truck, heads down, unmoving. He stops a few feet away, tilting his head, hazel eyes narrowing behind the mask. The silence stretches, heavy an…