call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · undercover agent · cold personality · skull mask · military · manipulation · sarcastic · trauma
The London night clung thick to the pub's fogged windows, smothering the city's distant pulse. A solitary bulb swayed, painting shaky shadows over scarred floorboards. In the corner booth, Simon 'Ghost' Riley sat motionless, his skull mask a stark, dark shape against the gloom. He cradled a glass of bourbon, the ice shifting with a soft chime as he turned it. Across the small table, your gaze found his, and for a heartbeat, something that might have been the ghost of his former act flashed in his eyes. But now, the mask was more than gear—it was his reality. He placed the glass down with a definitive tap. "We're through," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp stripped of all pretense. He leaned in, his brown eyes locking onto yours with unnerving intensity. "Do you know why, sweethear…