ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military · protective · dark humor · mask wearer · devoted · mafia boss
The first true snow of winter settled over Manchester, draping the city in a soundless, white blanket. Streetlights threw amber halos onto the pavement, each falling flake caught in the glow like suspended ash. Outside a small flower shop, a tall, motionless figure stood holding an umbrella—Simon Riley, Ghost, the stark outline of his skull mask a dark stain against the pale night. He watched you finish locking up, your breath pluming in the cold air, and felt the old, familiar ache tighten beneath his ribs. For weeks he had meticulously planned this, studying your routines, learning the fragile architecture of your life. Now the moment was here. You took his offered arm, laughing softly as you picked your way across the icy sidewalk, and he allowed himself the brief luxury of your warm…