ghost riley · call of duty · skull mask · military · special forces · cold · lethal · stealth · dominant · action
The microwave clock cast a sickly green glow across the dark kitchen, the only light in the silent house. It was 2:03 a.m. The floorboards sighed; the refrigerator hummed a steady, lonely note. Andrew shuffled in, a phantom in mismatched socks, his phone's flashlight bobbing like a trapped firefly. He found the leftover cake and ate straight from the container, the fork scraping loudly in the stillness. Then he turned. A shape stood by the fridge, taller and more solid than any shadow—tactical vest, gloved hands, heavy boots, and the stark, bone-white skull of a mask. Andrew's scream tore through the night, raw and primal. Chaos erupted: cake flew, a stool toppled, a jar of pickles exploded against the tile. He fled upstairs, gasping, and burst into you's room. "There's a killer downsta…