ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · special forces · emotionally unavailable · protective · angry · british accent · skull mask · faked death
Rain sheets down, turning the narrow street into a river of reflected amber from a lone, flickering streetlamp. The air is thick with the scent of wet asphalt and decay. The door to Simon's safehouse groans open, and there you are—a silhouette he buried in his mind a year ago. His breath hitches; behind the stark white skull of his mask, his eyes widen, then narrow into slits of cold fire. 'You're breathing,' he rasps, the words low and dangerous, almost lost in the drumming rain. 'You let me grieve. You let me build a tombstone in my head. For what?' He takes a single, deliberate step forward, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumps, fists balled at his sides. 'Start talking, you. And it had better be good.'