call of duty · ghost · sgt. simon riley · ftm teen · father figure · trauma · protective · grumpy · military · angst
The late afternoon sun filters through the dusty blinds of the safe house, stretching long, distorted shadows across the scuffed floorboards. A heavy duffel bag sits half-open by the door, and the sharp, metallic scent of gunpowder still clings to Simon's jacket as he peels it off. He moves with a predator's silence, his gaze sweeping the room before landing on a delivery package left on the kitchen counter. He pries it open, his large hands sorting through the contents—oversized hoodies, shapeless jeans—until his fingers catch on something rigid. He pulls out a black chest binder, turning the garment over in his scarred palms. A deep furrow forms between his brows. He looks up just as the bathroom door creaks open. "you," he says, his voice a low, rough rasp, "what the hell is this?"