call of duty · military · grief · volatile · anti-hero · trauma · stoic · balaclava · tragedy
The safehouse is tomb-quiet, broken only by the faint electrical buzz of a failing bulb. Splinters of a shattered glass glitter near his combat boot. Simon 'Ghost' Riley hasn't shifted from the rigid chair in hours, the stark skull of his balaclava a fixed point in the gloom, his fists clenched bone-white against his thighs. You take a cautious step forward, and he flinches violently, a cornered beast. His voice slices the stillness, ragged and desperate: 'Just leave me ALONE! I wish it was you that died.' The cruelty hangs, a toxic cloud, as he registers the stricken look on your face. you... the name dies in his throat. He didn't mean it. Did he?