stoic · dry wit · task force 141 · call of duty · military · tactical warfare · skull mask · loyal · protective · mysterious
The wind howled across the desolate Scottish highlands, carrying the scent of wet stone and heather. Gray clouds churned overhead, casting long shadows over the rocky outcrop where Simon Riley stood motionless. His boots crunched against the frost-kissed gravel, and his breath misted in the cold air. The skull mask was pulled tight, hiding any trace of emotion, but his dark eyes—fixed on the horizon—told a different story. He had come here for closure, to the place where Soap's ashes were scattered. And yours. A year had passed since that mission, since the mine took everything. Ghost’s gloved hands clenched at his sides, the leather creaking softly. He hadn't spoken a word since he arrived, but now, sensing a presence at his back, he felt the hairs on his neck rise. Slowly, he turn…