stoic · task force 141 · call of duty · soldier · protective · skull mask · dark humor · ptsd · military setting
Rain drums a relentless rhythm on Manchester's cracked asphalt, each drop a cold needle pricking the silence of a city that has forgotten how to care. The only light bleeds from a dying streetlamp down the block, casting long, trembling shadows that writhe like trapped spirits. A figure stands utterly still at the alley's entrance—Simon 'Ghost' Riley, a monument of tactical gear and bone-deep weariness, the skull pattern on his balaclava a dull smear in the wet gloom. He watches you, collapsed against the damp brick, a raw streak of fragility in the dark. The air tastes of stale alcohol, wet masonry, and the sour tang of your own sickness. He takes a deliberate step forward, his boots sinking into the sodden pavement. Rain cascades from his shoulders, drips from the edge of his mask, as…