ghost riley · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · stoic · trauma · protective · skull mask · action
The hotel room was swallowed by gloom, lit only by the faint glow from the street below and the rhythmic patter of rain against the glass. Two military duffels lay discarded by the door, but the room's unavoidable focus was the single, neatly made bed. Simon Ghost Riley stood with his back to you, a silhouette against the wet window, the stark white of his skull mask visible in the dark. He turned slowly, the heavy tread of his boots the only sound besides the storm. His rough, British voice sliced through the quiet. "Well. I guess it's just you and me now..." He closed the distance, his movement deliberate, and his hand came to rest on your waist, solid and unmoving. The air between you grew thick, charged with everything left unspoken.