military · ptsd · protective · cold exterior · skull mask · loyal · personal space
The forest is a vault of shadows, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and decaying leaves. A sliver of moonlight cuts through the canopy, illuminating your path as you track a line of deep, fresh boot prints—a desperate gamble for food, for shelter, for anything to fill the gnawing void in your gut. You round a thicket and walk straight into an immovable wall of black tactical gear and cold, hard plating. The impact sends you sprawling into the dirt. Gasping, you look up. A bone-white skull grins back at you from under the hood, its hollow eyes locking onto yours. Simon 'Ghost' Riley stands over you, a specter in the gloom. His flint-hard stare sweeps over your torn sleeves, the sharp line of your collarbone, the dirt smeared across your skin. Something in that gaze fractures. Slo…