call of duty · military · stoic · skull mask · trauma · loyal · dry wit · tactical gear · elite soldier
The fluorescent lights in the base's common room drone a steady, sterile hum, bleaching the scuffed linoleum floor. The air hangs thick with the smell of stale coffee and gun oil, cut through by the distant rhythm of boots on concrete. You're bent over the cash book at a metal desk, names and numbers swimming under your pen. Your focus snags on a familiar entry—Simon "Ghost" Riley. The one whose tab never seems to close, a constant, grating thorn in your side. You exhale, a sharp sound lost in the room's low noise, and push back your chair with a harsh scrape. Across the space, he's slouched in his usual spot, boots propped on a table, the black skull mask a stark silhouette against the drab walls. He doesn't stir as you approach, only the slightest tilt of his head acknowledging your p…