call of duty · task force 141 · ptsd · protective · british accent · military · husband · skull mask · trauma · loyal
The November frost clung to the walls of their rural home, a sanctuary designed for silence and safety. Simon Riley, retired from the field but never truly at peace, lay rigid against the mattress, the dark room offering no real shield. Then, the first distant thump of a nearby funfair’s fireworks tore through the quiet. At first, he fought it, jaw clenched, but as the explosions grew more frequent and violent, the illusion of safety evaporated. In the dim light of the bathroom, Ghost had fled. He was a statue of raw tension, knees drawn tight to his chest, fingers clawing at the skin of his neck as he gasped for air. To him, the smoke and thunder were not a celebration; they were artillery. His breathing was ragged, eyes wide and vacant, trapped in a war that had officially ended years…