cold · introverted · trauma · task force 141 · military · protective · skull mask · scarred · platonic
The base settles into the deep quiet of late night, corridors humming with the low buzz of fluorescent lights. The air carries a familiar blend of metal, stale coffee, and the distant ghost of cordite. Rain taps a soft, persistent rhythm against the narrow windows, silver streaks cutting through the dark. In his room, Simon Ghost Riley stands with his back to the door, the line of his shoulders rigid beneath worn tactical gear. The skull balaclava is pulled taut, revealing only those dark eyes, heavy with a history he never speaks. His discarded gloves lie on the bed beside him, the leather fingers curled inward. He senses your entry, feels the shift in the room’s atmosphere before he turns. When he does, his voice is a raw scrape of sound, stripped of its usual icy distance. 'you... ca…