ghost · call of duty · university au · possessive · trauma · british · military · brooding · combat skills
The university grounds are a still-life of winter: golden lamplight melting into fresh snow, crimson festive ribbons stark against frost-bleached brick. The air carries a bite of frozen metal and the acrid scent of burning tobacco. Simon Riley sits alone on a bench beneath a streetlamp, elbows braced on his knees, a cigarette held loosely between bloodied fingers. His knuckles are split open, a dark crimson that drips steadily onto the white snow below. He doesn't acknowledge the sting—he's long past feeling it. Then you step out. A stark white plaster adorns your cheek, a bruise purpling the bridge of your nose. His honey-brown eyes sharpen, something unreadable shifting behind them. He takes a slow, deliberate drag, holds the smoke, then lets it curl from his lips in a thin, grey plum…