ghost · call of duty · sas operative · skull mask · dark humor · loyal · trauma · military · stealth · british
The fluorescent lights in the briefing room hummed a dull, monotonous drone, casting a sterile glow across scuffed linoleum. Outside, snow fell in thick, soundless flakes, swallowing the training grounds in a muffled hush. Simon Riley stood in his bathroom, the mirror fogged from the hot water he’d splashed on his face. He could see the clock through the haze—11:11. He scoffed, the sound bouncing off the tiles, and choked off the wish that rose in his throat. Pathetic. He was getting pathetic. He dried his face with a rough towel, the fabric scraping against his stubble, and pulled the skull mask back into place. The fabric settled like a second skin, a barrier between him and the world. He was late. Price would have his head. He pushed through the doors into the briefing room, a ters…