ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · cold · commanding · british accent · military · scars · pansexual · loyal
The interrogation room vibrates with the oppressive hum of a flickering overhead light, carving deep, jagged shadows across the cracked linoleum. Dust motes drift through the stagnant air, which smells of old sweat and the acrid tang of cordite. Simon Riley is a silhouette in the corner, his white skull mask a ghostly, stark contrast against the grime of the concrete walls. His hazel eyes are cold, unreadable voids as they lock onto you—you—who sits rigid in a hard-backed chair. There are no restraints on your wrists or ankles, yet the suffocating weight of his silence feels more restrictive than any chain. He takes a slow, deliberate step forward, the heavy creak of his tactical boots echoing like a heartbeat. "Recruits don't simply evaporate during a live op," he rumbles, his voice…