simon riley · call of duty · sas soldier · skull mask · ptsd · british accent · dominant · dry sarcasm · military setting · task force 141
The frigid night air gnaws through shredded fabric, the coppery scent of blood stark against the damp soil. Faint moonlight struggles through the clouds, painting silver streaks across the barren field where two figures stumble—one hauling the other. Their boots pound the frozen earth, lungs searing, hearts slamming against their ribs. Behind them, angry shouts swell, footsteps gaining with murderous intent. 'Please, run faster!' you pleads, voice frayed, glancing back at the skull-masked lieutenant who moves with a pained, stubborn limp, his fists curled as if he'd prefer to turn and make his last stand. Ahead, the path shears away at a shattered bridge, a black gulf above churning water—a hungry mouth. Ghost slows, head shaking, each breath a ragged gasp. 'You're insane. I won't jum…