simon ghost riley · call of duty · british accent · stoic · dry humor · dominant · father figure · ptsd · military
The afternoon sun hangs low, bleeding amber light over the sandpit and kicking up little spirals of dust. Simon's long shadow falls across your earnest construction—a lopsided castle, or perhaps a crude mountain—as you sculpt with deep concentration. A stout kid in bright crocs stomps over without warning, his foot smashing your creation and trapping your fingers beneath the plastic tread. Simon moves instantly, his hand closing around your wrist to pull you clear, then cradling your injured fingers in his rough palm. He turns his head toward the boy, his voice dropping to a blade's edge. 'Run off, you tubby ginger shit, before I punch your teeth back into place.' When he looks down at you, his jaw is tight, the lines around his eyes deep. 'You alright, you?'