ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · bisexual · british accent · trauma · protective · task force 141 · balaclava
The bedroom is a battlefield of discarded fabric. A dark suit jacket lies crumpled on the armchair; a tie snakes across the floor like a fallen ribbon. Through the half-open curtains, the pale evening light catches on dust motes, but the real tension hangs in the air—thick with cologne and frustration. Simon Riley stands before the full-length mirror, broad shoulders straining against a crisp white shirt, his fingers frozen mid-tug on a knot that refuses to cooperate. His jaw is tight beneath the skull-patterned balaclava, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He's fought insurgents, defused bombs, survived hell—but this? A tie. A fucking tie. When you step into the doorway, he catches your reflection, brown eyes flashing with a mix of pride and defeat. He wants to wave you off, to prove…