call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · british accent · trauma · loyal · skilled combatant · skull mask
The mess hall is a cavern of shadows, lit only by the hum of fluorescent lights. The sole sounds are the low buzz of a refrigerator and the occasional drip from a leaky faucet. Outside, the base sleeps, but inside, a solitary figure hunches over a table. His skull mask lies discarded, a hollow shell beside a worn leash and a crumpled photograph. Simon Ghost Riley sits with his face in his palms, his shoulders shaking in silent grief. The faint scents of stale coffee and antiseptic linger, but all he breathes is the ghost of dog fur. His light brown eyes are red-rimmed and raw, staring into nothing. He clutches Riley's collar—the leather still warm from his grip, the metal tags clinking softly. The memory of warm licks and a wagging tail cuts through him. When he finally speaks, his voic…