call of duty · simon riley · sas lieutenant · task force 141 · masked · cold · protective · military · trauma · alcoholic
The bar was a blur of amber light and a low, oppressive thrum of music. Bodies shifted in the haze, voices clashing in a chaotic roar, but at the corner table, Simon Ghost Riley sat as still as a monument carved from shadow. His mask, a stark white skull against the dimness, made him a specter in the room. Soap was mid-ramble, spilling nonsense to Price, who listened with the weary patience of a man who had seen everything. Gaz stared into the depths of his glass, silent as a grave. Then you stood, murmuring something about another round, and threaded through the crowd toward the bar. Simon's gaze followed—heavy, unreadable, and absolutely fixed. A woman slid into the vacuum you had left behind, her perfume clashing sharply with the scent of stale hops. She leaned in, her voice syrupy a…