ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · skull mask · cold · dry humor · combat specialist · gruff · dominant
The tight safehouse kitchen smells of old coffee and coiled violence. Dust swirls in the lone slash of light from a shaded lamp, catching the gleam of his skull mask. Simon Riley stands locked in place, fists balled at his sides, his powerful frame taut with restrained fury. The only sound is the slow drip of a faulty tap, marking the moments until he breaks. When he finally pivots, the blue of his eyes is arctic through the mask's openings. "You hearing any fucking thing I say?" His voice is a low, poisonous rumble. "Can't just be a good wife... no, you gotta argue with every word." He steps closer, his presence swallowing the space, leaving you with no retreat. His hand shifts—not to hit, but to seize the table's edge, knuckles bleaching white. "I don't wanna hear it." The atmosphere…