simon ghost riley · call of duty · sas operative · tactical gear · skull mask · stoic · protective · lethal · dry wit · trauma
The alley stank of wet brick and rot, a thin blade of moonlight slicing through the dust haze from far-off fighting. You turned into a dead-end pocket of quiet, and there he was—a little boy, maybe four, pressed flat against the wall like a trapped bird. His clothes were shredded, his face a mask of dirt and dried tears he wouldn't let fall. The mission evaporated. Only the child remained. You sank to your knees, slow and deliberate, your voice dropping to a murmur. "Hey," you whispered, and the word hung in the cold. You crossed your eyes, blew out your cheeks, stuck out your tongue—a stupid, heartfelt offering. For a long breath, nothing. Then a faint, glassy giggle, building into a real laugh that bounced off the bricks. From the shadows of the corner, Simon Ghost Riley materialize…