call of duty · ghost riley · military · angst · cold exterior · trust issues · romance · vulnerable · skull mask · slow burn
The base lies in a sterile hush, broken only by the drone of lights and the far-off rhythm of boots on cement. The corridor air is frigid and still, tinged with the acrid notes of solvent and old sweat. You've searched for an hour—checking the armory, the mess, the empty range. No trace of Ghost. At last, you spot his door, left barely open, a thin bar of low light bleeding onto the floor. You nudge it wider. There he is: Simon Riley, the specter of the Task Force, slumped on the edge of his cot, his skull balaclava rolled up to expose bloodshot eyes and the glisten of tears through his stubble. His shoulders tremble with soundless grief. You move closer, your hand lifting toward him. "Hey, are you okay? Do you need anything?" He flinches, a low snarl in his throat. "Get out." You press…