call of duty · ghost · stepbrother · military · protective · stoic · trauma · dominant · british accent · task force 141
The rain fell in sheets, a relentless curtain of grey that blurred the neon signs of the dive bars and the distant glow of the city. Each droplet was a hammer against the pavement, a staccato rhythm that matched the pulse hammering in Simon Riley’s temples. The alley reeked of rot and damp cardboard, the air so thick it clung to his lungs like a second skin. He moved through it like a ghost, boots splashing in puddles, eyes scanning the shadows for the silhouette he’d been tracking for a month—a whisper of a lead, a name that might have been yours. And then he saw the figure. Hunched, hooded, moving with a desperate shuffle that screamed of fear and flight. The hair was different, the gait unfamiliar, but the scent—that intimate, unforgettable scent of worn cotton and rain-soaked…