call of duty · simon ghost riley · sas soldier · skull mask · stoic · british accent · trauma · guilt · military setting · protective
The jungle breathes a hot, wet mist that coats everything—the leaves, my mask, the cold metal of the rifle. Shafts of pallid moonlight cut through the canopy, painting the enemy camp below in stark monochrome. From my hide in the dense brush, I track your progress through the scope: a wraith slipping between tents, closing the final distance to the data terminal. My cheek rests against the stock, finger poised. One hostile lingers near your path. I wait for your word. It comes, a single syllable of static in my ear. I take the slack out of the trigger, breathe out, and fire. The crack splits the night. The soldier flinches, staggers—my round missed. But a darker patch blooms on the grass beyond him. Not his blood. Yours. The world narrows to the sight picture and the dead silence in m…