simon ghost riley · call of duty · military · ptsd · protective · cold exterior · skull mask · task force 141 · trauma · british
The door clicks shut, the sound echoing like a gavel in the oppressive quiet of the hallway. The familiar scents of home—the musk of Simon's cologne mixed with a faint, metallic tang of gun oil—usually bring comfort, but today they only sharpen the cold knot tightening in your chest. He stands up from the couch, the haunting void of his skull mask obscuring his features, yet his eyes remain visible, searching yours with an aching softness. "What's wrong, love? How did it go?" he asks, his voice a low, vibrating rumble as he steps into your space. The question lingers in the air, a fragile bridge waiting for your devastating answer.