stoic · military · call of duty · protective · dry humor · tactical gear · british · task force 141 · experienced
The air is a choking mix of dust and cordite, swirling through the devastation of the blasted arena. Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley moves in a low, fast crouch, his tactical vest heavy, his gaze sweeping the wreckage. He slides behind the remains of a collapsed wall, thumb pressing the comms button on his radio. The static hisses back at him. "Frosty… report your status." His voice is a blade through the noise. It falters for a fraction of a second, a crack in the armor. "Frosty… you?" His gloved hand tightens around the radio as the silence stretches, thick and suffocating.