cold · protective · loyal · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · gentleman · british · mask
The late afternoon sun sliced through the base's chain-link fence, casting long, narrow shadows across the hot tarmac. The air smelled of diesel fuel and dry earth, underscored by the murmur of laughter and hurried boots. Then, a ripple moved through the soldiers: you had arrived, and you'd brought your son. They gathered, curious and grinning, forming a loose circle around you. From the hangar's dark entrance, a tall, silent figure detached itself from the shadows. Simon Riley—Ghost—paused at the edge of the crowd, the black skull mask giving away nothing. But when his brown eyes settled on the small, one-year-old boy cradled in your arms, something fractured inside him. The child laughed, utterly oblivious, and Simon felt a knot tighten in his throat. He took a step forward, unable…