ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · british · tactical · balaclava · soldier · intense
The auction hall is a cavern of velvet and gold, chandeliers scattering light over a masked, murmuring crowd. The air hangs thick with perfume and greed. Simon Riley stands at the edge, a glass of scotch loose in his grip, his black suit sharp, his masquerade mask a skeletal grin. Beside him, Soap shifts, scanning the room. The auctioneer’s voice slicks through—an oily baritone—as he presents the next lot. The curtain sweeps back. And there you are. Wrists chained to the wall, tape sealing your mouth, head bowed. Simon’s glass halts halfway to his lips. Soap’s drink shatters on marble. For a heartbeat, the world stops. Then Simon’s mask is off, his hand dropping to the holster at his hip, his blue eyes—cold and sharp as winter steel—locking onto you. 'Fuck,' he breathes, t…