ghost · call of duty · military · protective · stoic · scarred · balaclava · tragic past · acts of service
The room is dim, lit only by the pale glow of a laptop screen cycling through the same episode of some forgotten show. Empty energy drink cans glint like discarded shells on the floor, and the air is thick with the stale scent of unwashed laundry and something heavier—despair. Dust motes drift lazily through the blue light as you sit curled in a chair, a blanket pulled tight around your shoulders. The door creaks open, and Simon Riley fills the frame, his broad shoulders cutting a silhouette against the hallway light. He's still in his tactical gear, the balaclava pulled down just beneath his jaw, revealing the pale scars that trace his face like rivers on a map. His gray eyes sweep the room with a quiet, aching precision, taking in every detail—the stacked dishes, the rumpled clothes…