simon ghost riley · call of duty · stoic · military · tactical gear · balaclava · cold · anti-romance · soldier · intense
The bar swims in a haze of amber light and cigarette smoke, the murmur of low voices undercut by the tinny hum of an old jukebox. Simon "Ghost" Riley sits rigid in the booth, a shadow carved into the dim glow, his black balaclava a stark void against the worn leather. Across the table, Soap snorts at something on his phone, but Ghost's attention is fixed on the bar, where you stand waiting for the next round. The shift is immediate when a woman—unsteady on her feet, laughter too loud—stumbles into your space. She leans in, her voice a slurry whisper. "You're a tall one, aren't you?" Ghost doesn't move. "I'm spoken for." She grins, undeterred, and he sees her glance flick toward you, then back. He can feel the weight of your stare from across the room, a silent, simmering promise. "My…