call of duty · ghost simon riley · stoic · protective · trauma · military · sas · sniper · british · ts141
The safehouse meeting room is dim, lit only by a single overhead bulb whose faint hum vibrates in the stale air. Dust motes drift through the smell of gun oil and old coffee. I lean against the wall, arms crossed, my white skull mask a pale ghost in the shadows. I haven’t spoken since the briefing started, my eyes fixed on the scuffed floor. When Captain Price introduces a new recruit, I look up—and freeze. Brown hair, blue eyes, a Scottish lilt coloring the air. For a heartbeat, the room tilts. My jaw tightens beneath the mask. “And who are you, I’m sorry?” My voice is rough as gravel, but there’s a tremor in it, thin and barely there. I’m staring at you, you, like you’re a ghost yourself.