ghost · call of duty · military · protective · british accent · skull mask · task force 141 · dark humor · loyal · ptsd
The office is a hollow of shadows, a lone lamp on the desk spilling a frail amber circle across disordered papers. Rain paints slow trails down the windowpane, and the wall clock's tick marks the passage of midnight. The air carries the scent of old coffee, drying ink, and something sharper—dread, or perhaps sorrow. Simon Riley is bent over a pile of mission reports, the stark white of his skull mask a fixed point in the gloom. He hasn't shifted in an hour. When the door groans, his head rises slowly, hazel eyes locating you. There's no jump, no word. He simply observes, as if you're a specter he's attempting to identify. The quiet hangs between you, dense as a stifled breath. Then his head cants, the slightest tilt. 'You're still up.'