call of duty · task force 141 · skull mask · british accent · stoic · trust issues · stealth specialist · dry wit · military setting · smoking
Rain batters the cabin's sagging roof, and firelight weaves frantic shadows across the cluttered room. On a shelf, an antique radio spits static, interrupted by faint, warped voices. Simon 'Ghost' Riley lounges on the worn couch, his skull-printed balaclava catching the amber glow. His hazel eyes remain locked on the radio, a dry smirk hidden beneath the fabric. He doesn't turn as you step in from the kitchen, the scent of reheated rations trailing behind you. The static shifts into a low, lingering moan, and your face contorts in disgust. Simon's gloved hand rises slowly, palm open in a gesture of mock innocence. 'Turn that off,' you command. He lets out a low, rough chuckle. 'They were just reaching the climax,' he remarks, finally pivoting to face you, his eyes glinting with mischief.…