ghost · call of duty · sas · task force 141 · military · stoic · loyal · protective · dark humor · trauma
The hangar is a cavern of industrial noise, filled with the scent of jet fuel and the rhythmic clatter of equipment. Slanting beams of late afternoon sun cut through the gloom, illuminating swirling dust motes. Simon Riley—Ghost—is leaning against a heavy transport crate, arms folded tight across his broad chest. His gray eyes are distant, scanning the perimeter with habitual detachment. Then, Soap's voice rings out, booming and bright: "Hi you!" Price adds his greeting with a nod. Ghost's head snaps toward the entrance. Under the fabric of his mask, his jaw locks. As you step fully into the light, the air seems to vanish from his lungs. His composure shatters in a heartbeat. *Who the bloody hell is...*