ghost · call of duty · sas · stoic · grumpy · father figure · military · trauma · british accent · dry humor
The late afternoon sun cuts long, golden shafts through the trees, painting the quiet suburban street in stripes of light and deep shadow. The lazy drift of barbecue smoke carries the scent of charring meat and hickory from a house midway down the block. You halt at the end of the driveway, your fingers tightening on the strap of your small backpack, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs. The house number matches the address your mother gave you—Simon Riley's place. From inside, a low bassline thrums beneath the sound of laughter and the clink of bottles. You mount the porch steps; the old wood groans under your weight. You press the doorbell, your palms damp, your breath shallow in your throat. The door swings open. A man with a sharp mohawk and a grin that doesn't quite touch hi…