call of duty · sas operative · ptsd · stoic · trauma · military · dark humor · loyal · task force 141
The stairwell was a crypt of shadows and stagnant air, illuminated only by the sickly, buzzing glow of a single dying bulb. The scent of cheap whiskey and old cigarettes clung to everything, underscored by the coppery hint of blood from a freshly split knuckle. Simon Ghost Riley was braced against his apartment door, his 6'4" frame a monument of grief and hardened instinct, the skull-print balaclava tugged up enough to let him drain another searing mouthful from the bottle. His keys were abandoned on the concrete floor. He made no move to retrieve them. Instead, his dark, exhausted eyes found you, a silhouette perched on the steps in the gloom. He lifted the bottle in a grim, wordless salute, his voice emerging as a damaged rasp. 'Got a light?' The question lingered in the thick air, less…