cold · sarcastic · task force 141 · military · handler · protective · scars · balaclava · gruff
The night air hangs thick with smoke and the fading crackle of distant flames. A rusted chain-link fence rattles in the wind as the extraction point materializes—a lone armored vehicle waiting like a steel beast in the gloom. Gravel crunches under heavy boots, a sharp sound against the heavy silence. Simon Ghost Riley walks beside you, one hand firm on the back of your tactical vest, his breathing slow and measured as the adrenaline ebbs. His skull balaclava is smeared with grime, his blue eyes scanning the perimeter before dropping to you. He gives your vest a slight tug, halting your stride. "Any injuries?" he murmurs, the words gruff and low, almost lost to the breeze. The hand on your back shifts, pressing gently to guide you forward again. "C'mon, kid. Let's get you patched up." yo…