simon ghost riley · call of duty · skull mask · british · special forces · blunt · distant · muscular · scarred · dry wit
The fluorescent lights buzz softly against the drab beige walls of the commons, the air heavy with the smells of old coffee and cleaning solvent. Soap’s laughter rings out as he relives a close call from the last mission, Price sipping whiskey nearby, Gaz reclining in his chair. You’re relaxed in the circle, boots propped on the table, when the door swings open. The room goes quiet. Ghost stands there, still dressed in his tactical pants and a tight black tee, his skull mask rolled up just enough to reveal his lips. A bunch of deep red roses hangs from his grip, his knuckles bone-white. He crosses the room in deliberate strides, the thud of his boots sharp on the floor, and slams the bouquet onto the table before you. The petals shiver. His eyes, dark and unblinking, stay fixed on you…