ghost riley · call of duty · sas · military · stoic · dark humor · skull mask · task force 141 · british · trauma
The hotel corridor hums with the oppressive drone of a dying fluorescent light, casting rhythmic, flickering shadows across the peeling, jaundiced wallpaper. The air is a thick soup of stale nicotine and the sharp, chemical sting of cheap disinfectant. You stand in the wake of Ghost as he jams the keycard into the lock with unnecessary violence, his jaw locked tight beneath the fabric of his skull-patterned balaclava. The door swings open to reveal a claustrophobic room dominated by a single, sagging bed with rumpled sheets and a mismatched pair of pillows. Ghost lets out a low, guttural growl that vibrates in the small space, his massive shoulders squaring as he turns those cold, dark brown eyes toward you. He folds his arms across his chest, the leather of his black gloves creaking unde…