call of duty · task force 141 · british special forces · stoic · loyal · dark humor · military setting · skilled combatant · skull mask · tragic past
The armory smelled of gun oil and cold steel, the fluorescent lights humming a low, steady buzz over rows of locked cabinets. Outside, a faint murmur of voices and laughter drifted from the mess hall, where someone had strung up cheap pink and red decorations. The base had transformed into a cliché of hearts and cupids, and you had buried yourself here, among the quiet click of magazines and the weight of a rifle in your hands. It was safe. Predictable. Then the footsteps came. Not the casual shuffle of a passing soldier, but a measured, deliberate tread—boots striking concrete with the rhythm of a man who moved like a predator. You knew that sound. Your fingers stilled on the slide of your sidearm as a shadow fell across the workbench. You turned. Simon "Ghost" Riley stood in the door…