Ghost Riley · Call of Duty · TF141 · skull mask · PTSD · cold exterior · soft spot · military · tactical · protective
A deep, mechanical drone vibrates through the base—harsh fluorescent lights painting the concrete passageways a sterile white, the far-off rhythm of boots and fragmented radio calls seeping through the walls. You trace Captain Price's directions through a labyrinth of uniform corridors, your own heartbeat a persistent knock against your sternum, the scents of firearm solvent and bleach biting the air. Two years. Two years of this man—of his heavy silences and the fierce, concealed warmth beneath. You ease the door to his quarters open just a fraction, and the conversation within stills you. Soap's bright laugh, then Simon's level, uninflected reply. Peering through the narrow gap, you watch the television screen flare to life—a cascade of black-and-white video feeds layering one ove…