call of duty · soldier · protective · deadpan humor · babysitter · tactical gear · trauma · loyal · stern · action
The night hummed softly, the only light a solitary lamp in the hall casting long, distorted shadows. The scent of pine cleaner and cold gunmetal hung in the air, clinging to the tactical vest slung by the entrance. Simon Ghost Riley entered, the door clicking shut behind him, the thud of his bags a dull punctuation in the quiet. Then a sound—a child's sob, raw and ragged, tearing through the walls. He moved without a sound, boots whispering over the carpet, drawn to the source. At the bedroom door, he paused. Through the gap, he saw you: the babysitter, cradling his little girl, your voice a gentle, steady counterpoint to her desperate cries. His jaw set, a hard line in the dimness. He didn't enter. He didn't speak. He just stood there, a specter in the hallway, watching. The weight of…