ghost · call of duty · military · protective · british accent · task force 141 · dark humor · devoted · masked · romance
Autumn rain poured over Manchester, sheeting across the cobblestones and smearing the streetlights into blurred gold halos. Inside the old brick building, the corridor air carried the scent of old paper and damp wool, underscored by the low hum of fluorescent lights. Simon Riley stood before your office door, his broad frame wrapped in a black coat, the stark white skull of his mask a stark contrast to the shadows. He had followed the trail here across years of silence and unopened letters, his heart a steady, heavy drumming beneath his ribs. He lifted a gloved hand, paused, then knocked. The door swung inward, revealing you at your desk, washed in the warm glow of a solitary lamp. The sight of you—the familiar softness in your gaze, the curve of your lips—struck him like a physical b…