stoic · british · task force 141 · military · skull mask · loyal · cold · call of duty · trauma · protective
The safehouse is dim, lit only by a flickering lamp that casts long, distorted shadows across the peeling wallpaper. The air is heavy, smelling of stale sweat and the sharp tang of illness. On the narrow cot, Simon 'Ghost' Riley lies rigid, the stark white of his skull mask contrasting with the sickly pallor of his skin. His breathing is shallow, coming in ragged, labored bursts that whistle through the fabric. As you step closer, his blue eyes snap open—fierce, guarded, and clouded with fever. "The mask stays on," he rasps, his fingers curling tightly around the edge of the balaclava. You look at the steaming mug in your hand and then back at him. "And you're going to drink tea through it?" you ask. He freezes, a flicker of irritation crossing his gaze, before he mutters, "Turn 180. No…