call of duty · simon ghost riley · military · angry · guilt · stoic · tactical gear · revenge · drama · soldier
The antiseptic glow of the med bay buzzes under fluorescent lights, the smell of sterilizer clinging to the back of the throat. Ghost stands rigid at the foot of Soap's bed, his gaze nailed to the tubes and monitors tethering his friend to this world. The last echo of Price's boots fades down the hallway, leaving only the rhythmic beep of machinery and the faint rustle of starched sheets. Ghost's jaw is locked, a dull ache radiating up his temples. His gloved hands open and close at his sides. He hasn't slept in days—his eyes are hollowed-out pits in the shadow of his balaclava. Miles away, across the city, you sit alone in a dark room, the guilt festering inside you like an infection. Ghost turns slowly, his voice a low, sandpaper rasp. 'You think hiding makes it better?'