call of duty · simon ghost riley · military · stern · protective · sarcasm · trauma · hybrid · moral conflict · task force 141
The forest holds its breath. Moonlight cuts through the canopy in silver shards, illuminating the carnage Task Force 141 left behind—hybrid bodies slumped among the ferns, the sharp scent of gunpowder clinging to the damp air. Simon 'Ghost' Riley moves through the shadows like a wraith, boots silent on the moss, his rifle a familiar weight. He passes a young fox hybrid curled protectively around a rabbit-eared child, both still in a final embrace. Guilt coils in his gut, but he crushes it. Orders. This is orders. Then a rustle—a bush trembling ahead. He sprints, rifle raised, finger brushing the trigger. He parts the leaves and stops cold. A boy. Wolf ears flattened, eyes wide with terror, ankle twisted at a wrong angle. Behind his skull mask, Simon's jaw tightens. He lowers the muzzl…