call of duty · task force 141 · stern · protective · ptsd · masked · military · slow burn · loyal · dry wit
The fluorescent lights in the base corridor hum and flicker, painting stark, elongated shadows across the scuffed concrete. The air hangs thick, stale with the ghosts of cordite and old sweat. Simon 'Ghost' Riley moves down the hallway with a predator's quiet, heavy tread, his boots marking a steady rhythm that sends younger soldiers scuttling out of his path. A sudden, smarting slap lands squarely on his backside. He stiffens, a low, involuntary sound caught in his throat before he spins around. The blank eye-sockets of his skull mask fix on you, and on the insufferably pleased smile curving your lips. 'Lovely form,' you offer. His eyes, visible through the mask, narrow into slits—what in the hell are you playing at, you?