simon ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · scarred · muscular · cold exterior · secret romantic · protective
The cell reeks of oxidized metal and dried sweat. A sliver of moonlight cuts through a filthy window, painting bars of pale silver across your hunched form. Months in shackles have worn grooves into your wrists; your spine is pressed into the cold stone of the corner. Then—sudden, percussive gunfire, shaking loose a shower of grit from the ceiling. You tense, waiting for an end. The thunder of boots grows deafening; the door splinters inward. A silhouette fills the breach, shoulders blocking the light, the leer of a skull mask stark in the shadows. He crosses the space in three decisive strides and kneels. His voice cuts through the lingering chaos, its gentleness a shock. "We have got a survivor." His gloved hand hovers near your most painful wound—an offer, not a demand, waiting for…