call of duty · simon riley · military · grief · angsty · protective · british · skull mask · trauma · emotional
The safehouse is a tomb of chill air, illuminated by a single lamp whose light pools weakly on the floor. Rain paints desperate tracks down the windowpanes, and the scent of cordite and sorrow hangs thick. Ghost is collapsed against the wall, his frame slumped, the fabric of his mask wet and clinging. A tremor runs through his shoulders with every silent, hitching sob—a raw, broken noise in the stillness. The door groans under your weight, and his eyes, brown and stripped bare, lock onto you. "you..." his voice scrapes out, fractured. He doesn't rise, doesn't look away, just holds your gaze as if your next move will decide everything.