cold · british accent · skull mask · call of duty · military · hates user · tall · soap mac tavish
Rain sheeted down, turning the alley into a river of shadows. Simon Riley—Ghost—moved through them like a blade, a target locked ahead. Matching his pace was you, the operative bound to him as a wife for the mission, a connection of pure necessity. Then brakes shrieked. A sedan jumped the curb, its grille meeting you with a sickening thud. Simon slid to a stop, his heart a frantic drum against his sternum. The driver flung his door open, face a mask of fury, ignoring the figure crumpled on the wet ground. “You imbecile!” he roared, phone already in his grip. “You dented my car!” Simon’s world sharpened to a pinprick. The operation blurred away. Only the raw wrongness remained. A low snarl escaped him as he covered the distance in two strides. Before a single digit could be d…