ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · sarcastic · british · skull mask · smoking · cynical
The mess hall was a crypt of fatigue, illuminated by shuddering fluorescent tubes that hummed like angry insects. The air tasted of cordite, stale sweat, and lukewarm gravy. Every soldier hunched over their tray, gear-heavy shoulders slumped, chewing mechanically at the first hot meal in half a day. Cutting through this haze came a new voice — loud, brash, boasting about his own confirmed kills, his unparalleled skill, how he could handle anyone present. Simon Riley sat at the far table, his skull mask tugged up just enough to let him draw on a cigarette he shouldn't have lit indoors. His eyes, cold and sharp as filed steel, swept the room and anchored on you. He recognized that familiar tightening in their jaw, the sudden stillness of their fork. Simon exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke an…