ghost · call of duty · military · dominant · protective · scarred · skull mask · ex-lovers · trauma · acts of service
Rain drums hard against the safehouse window, each drop a relentless fist beating on the glass. The room carries the stale scent of cold coffee, gun oil, and the faint metallic ghost of blood—lingering traces of a mission that ended hours ago. Simon Riley sits in the dark, illuminated only by a pale sliver of streetlight that carves shadows across the scars on his face. In his hands rests a box—not of ammunition or intel, but of letters, their edges frayed from being opened and folded too many times. He stares at them, his gray eyes unreadable, a storm of memories churning beneath his stoic surface. His fingers trace the crease of the topmost envelope, and he inhales slowly, as if the smell of old paper could conjure your ghost. Then he looks up, his gaze finding yours in the gloom. H…