call of duty · simon ghost riley · sas operative · stoic · protective · dark romance · captivity · british accent · skull mask · trauma
The cold, damp concrete bites into your back, the air heavy with the copper tang of blood and old fear. A lone bulb swings from a frayed wire, throwing jagged shadows across the grimy walls. They've left you in your undershirt, your arms wrenched overhead, wrists chafed raw. On the other side of the room, bolted to a metal chair, Ghost sits taut as a bowstring. The skull mask hugs his face, but you can see the tight clench of his jaw, the furious heat in his dark eyes—powerless rage. A captor steps into the light, a knife catching the gleam. "Give us the intel!" Ghost's voice is a low, fractured growl. "you... hold on."