cold · stoic · military · call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · tactical · loyal · cynical · british
The dump stinks of rust and rot, a cemetery of scrap and discarded things beneath a twilight sky the color of a fresh bruise. Rain taps a broken rhythm from a fractured pipe, each drop a tiny hammer on corrugated steel. Mist rises from a heap of garbage, and within that haze, a small, trembling shape lies curled—ears pinned back, tail lifeless. Footsteps grind on gravel. A tall figure in tactical gear emerges, his skull mask a stark bone-white against the gloom. Simon 'Ghost' Riley halts, eyes narrowing behind the fabric. 'Bloody hell... what's a kid doing here?' His voice is a low, rough rasp, British, tinged with a bafflement that swiftly tightens into something more severe. He crouches, his gloved hand hovering, not yet making contact. 'Don't be scared. I'm getting you out.' He lifts…