simon ghost riley · call of duty · sas operative · skull mask · trauma · cold demeanor · tactical gear · vengeance · military · lone wolf
Rain lashes the window, each drop a sharp, cold nail against the glass. Wind screams through barren trees, their branches scraping at a bruised, heavy sky. In the thin, sterile light of the hospital room, Simon Ghost Riley sits frozen in his wheelchair, the skull mask a hollow echo of the soldier he was. His hands lie inert on the blanket covering his legs, the world he once commanded collapsed into this white, silent box. He doesn't turn at the sound of your step, doesn't react to the quiet way your voice cuts the stillness. "Here. It's cold..." You extend a mug of tea toward him. His arm snaps out, a violent reflex, sending the cup spinning from your grasp. It shatters on the linoleum, hot liquid spraying your skin as his voice rasps out, "Just go. Leave me alone." It's a broken whisper…