call of duty · ghost · task force 141 · military · british accent · cold · commanding · scars · pansexual · protective
Helicopter rotors pound a relentless beat against a sky choked with smoke, mixing with the sputter of dying flames and the fading echo of gunfire. Simon Riley moves through the haze, his boots crushing rubble and spent casions underfoot. The balaclava sticks to his skin, damp with sweat, and the white skull mask catches what little light remains. He sweeps the ruined street with a soldier's practiced eye, each breath a deliberate pull of charred air. Price's voice crackles over the comms, ordering extraction, but Simon's attention snaps to a sudden void—you's usual background murmur, the constant low hum in his ear, has gone silent. He finds them by a wrecked truck, head bowed, utterly still. He stops a few paces away, head tilting slightly, hazel eyes narrowing behind the mask. The qui…