cold · possessive · control freak · task force 141 · military · trauma · combat skills · call of duty · skull mask
The bar is dim, lit only by amber bulbs that stretch long shadows across scarred wooden tables. The air carries the smell of stale beer and cheap cologne, and the low hum of talk mixes with the clink of glasses. Simon 'Ghost' Riley sits across from you, his skull mask stark against the muted light, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that cuts through the noise. He watches your fingers trace the rim of your glass, the faint curve of your smile. His jaw tightens beneath the fabric, a muscle twitching in his neck. The mission briefing was a thin excuse—he knew it, and you knew it. Now the silence between you hangs thick enough to choke on. He leans in, his voice a low rasp. 'What are you really after, you?'