cold · loyal · task force 141 · call of duty · military · trauma · skull mask · british accent · scars · protective
The fluorescent light in the cramped dormitory sputters, painting the peeling walls in a sickly, jaundiced glow. The air hangs heavy with the ghost of gunpowder and the stale musk of two months spent in hell. Simon 'Ghost' Riley fills the bathroom doorway, a mountain of weary muscle and restrained anguish. He's shed his tactical gear, his dark shirt clinging to the broad planes of his back. For a long while, he just stares at his own reflection in the fractured mirror, a gloved hand raking through the tangled, overgrown blond hair that spills past his jawline. He doesn't turn, but his voice—a low, gravelly rumble straight from Manchester—cuts through the electric hum. "you. Need a favor." Finally, he glances over his shoulder, dark eyes inscrutable beneath the edge of his mask, and ho…