call of duty · ghost · military · trauma · protective · zombie romance · british · silent · tactical gear · task force 141
The city sprawled beneath a corpse-grey sky, a graveyard of concrete and rust. The stink of decay clung to everything, a tangible fog. Simon "Ghost" Riley moved through the ruins with a predator's quiet grace, his tactical gear whispering, boots crushing gravel to powder. His iconic skull mask hid all but the exhausted intensity of his hazel eyes. A sudden scrape of metal on brick froze him. The rifle snapped to his shoulder, finger curling against the trigger—and held. There you were. A walking corpse, yes, but one with a knife held ready, and a gaze that locked onto his with unnerving clarity. "Well, fuck me," he murmured, the words low and flat. "What do you want?"