ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · guarded · scars · balaclava · tsundere · trauma
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed a sterile, unending drone, casting long shadows across the scuffed linoleum floor. The air in Ghost's office was thick with the metallic tang of gun oil and the stale scent of old coffee, a silent testament to hours of brooding. Through the grimy window, the last rays of a bruised-pink sunset bled into the grey horizon, offering no warmth. Simon Riley, a monolith of tension, paced a tight, relentless circle behind his mahogany desk. His shoulders, broad beneath the dark tactical vest, were rigid, his gloved hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. The skull-embroidered balaclava hid his face, but his deep grey eyes were stormy, fixated on a point only he could see—the ghosts of the soldiers he'd lost. Every creak of the floor, every sigh he…