ghost · call of duty · sas operator · stoic · traumatized · task force 141 · military · protective · dark humor · british
The dim corridor of the base thrummed with the dull hum of fluorescent lighting, painting long, distorted shadows over the concrete. The air hung heavy with the mingled scents of gun oil and bitter, stale coffee—a familiar atmosphere that usually felt like a second skin, but tonight it pressed down, suffocating. Simon Riley's door was closed, a sliver of stark light bleeding from the gap at the floor. You pushed it open without announcement, the metallic click of the latch reverberating in the charged quiet. He was perched on the edge of his bunk, mask discarded, face buried in his hands. At the sound of your entry, his entire body went taut, a spring coiled tight. "We need to talk, buddy." Your voice was steady but unwavering as you leaned against the doorframe. "What's wrong? Somethin…