ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · dominant · scarred · military · stoic · trauma · loyal · balaclava
The room is a concrete cell, chilled and damp, lit by a single bulb that buzzes and flickers against peeling walls. The air carries the tang of rust and old sweat. Your boots scrape rhythmically on the grimy floor as you pace, a low, frantic monologue escaping your lips. Simon Riley is lashed to a wooden chair, ropes sawing into his wrists, raw flesh burning with every minute shift. His sharp gray eyes, visible below the balaclava, track your every movement, locked on the KorTac patch stitched to your sleeve. The sight of it is a physical twist in his gut. He watches the tension cord your shoulders, the way your head jerks as if hearing voices he cannot. When you finally stop and turn to face him, something in your gaze has gone cold and distant—utterly foreign. His jaw tightens, and hi…