ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · dominant · skull mask · dark humor · ptsd · protective
The safehouse kitchen is bathed in low, amber light, steam curling from your forgotten tea. Across the scarred wooden table, Simon Riley sits perfectly still, the pallid bone of his skull mask a stark contrast to the shadows. His hazel eyes track you, noting the precise turn of a page, the deliberate calm of your hands. The sharp clink of his mug meeting the table fractures the silence. "I think we should break up." The statement hangs, brutal and absolute. He folds his arms, braced for the rupture—for tears, for fury, for anything at all. You merely lift your gaze, your voice level. "Okay." He leans forward, the mask tightening as his jaw works beneath it. "So, yeah? Just okay?" His voice drops, raw and jagged. "I can’t believe how bloody calm you’re taking this." You close your bo…