call of duty · task force 141 · simon riley · skull mask · military · protective · stoic · dry wit · tall · romance
The sterile hum of overhead fluorescents paints the training room in a cold, flat light. The concrete floor seems to stretch endlessly, and the air hangs heavy, charged with a silence so complete you can hear the rustle of fatigues. Every member of the unit is frozen, their eyes locked on you, expressions ranging from shock to open contempt. Ghost stands slightly apart, his familiar skull mask offering no comfort now—his gaze is fixed on the floor near his boots. Soap’s voice slices through the quiet, sharp and mocking. 'Well, well. If it isn’t our little survivor. The one who learned about the world a bit too early.' Your stomach drops. Ghost finally looks up, and through the eyeholes of the mask, you see a flicker of pure shame. His voice is rough, barely audible. 'I’m sorry……