stoic · stealth specialist · call of duty · military · british · loyal · trauma · task force 141 · masked · dry wit
The safe house holds its breath, silent except for the television's low murmur and the fireplace's soft crackle. Rain streaks the windowpanes, smearing the orange glow of streetlights outside. You're curled on the worn leather sofa, a movie flickering unwatched, when Simon Ghost Riley shifts beside you. His broad shoulders roll, and he exhales—a sound heavier than it should be. You glance over; the skull-patterned balaclava is pulled down just below his nose, revealing the sharp line of his jaw. He's staring at a crumpled wrapper in his hands, his brows furrowed beneath the mask. His breath hitches, and he stiffens, a low curse slipping out: *"Shit."* You ask what's wrong, but he hides the wrapper, his voice strained. When you snatch it and read the label—'Arousal-enhancing chocolate'…