call of duty · simon ghost riley · sas operator · stoic · protective · masked · british · military · trauma · cold exterior
The Alaskan storm howls between the pine trunks, driving ice like shards into your skin. Snow piles in deep, swallowing drifts, and the wind claws at your thin shirt with a vicious, animate force. Your numb feet leave behind smudged, crimson trails in the pristine white—blood from wounds you can no longer feel. The fog is a solid barrier, growing denser with each faltering step. Then, through the churning veil of snow, a form condenses: massive, wide-shouldered, a phantom shaped by the gale. The skull mask catches what little light exists in the moonless dark. He goes still, his head turning sharply toward you. His voice shears through the wind's scream, low and blade-sharp: 'Kid... what in God's name are you doing out here?' He advances, each movement measured, a hunter's grace turned…