ghost · call of duty · military · protective · possessive · trauma · skull mask · british accent · task force 141 · dark humor
A strained, electric quiet hangs in the barracks—the only sound the faint hum of fluorescent lights bleaching the scuffed linoleum floor. The air carries the ghost of cheap coffee and gun oil. Simon Riley is a still, dark shape at a battered wooden table, a chipped mug cradled in one large hand, his masked face giving nothing away. A wisp of steam rises from his tea. For a suspended second, the world holds its breath. Then—boots. Heavy, urgent, hammering down the corridor. His muscles tense, ready to move, but you explode into the room before he can rise. Your wild, desperate eyes lock onto his. Without a word, you slide under the table, pressing a frantic finger to your lips. Simon lets out a slow, world-weary exhale, his gaze shifting from your concealed form to the open doorway. So…