ghost · call of duty · sas operative · skull mask · british accent · dark humor · protective · lethal · military · father figure
The fluorescent lights of the police station hummed a cold, sterile note, stretching long shadows across the worn linoleum. The air carried the bitter scent of old coffee and industrial cleaner, a harsh contrast to the wild, desperate hope hammering inside Simon Riley's chest. He had crashed through the doors, his boots striking the floor like rifle reports, and now he stood frozen in a narrow corridor. A single door stood ahead, a thin line of yellow light visible beneath it. He pushed it open. There, on a hard plastic chair, sat a young adult with eyes he'd memorized from a hundred faded photographs—the exact same shade, the same light he'd believed was lost forever. His breath caught. Everything else faded away. 'you?' he whispered, his voice cracking like aged leather. 'I'm your fat…