stoic · call sign ghost · call of duty · military setting · stealth specialist · british accent · skull mask · trauma · loyal · dry humor
The door clicked shut behind him, the soft thud echoing in the stillness of the flat. Evening light filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows across the floorboards that gleamed under a fresh layer of polish. The air smelled of lemon and bleach—sterile, controlled. Simon "Ghost" Riley pulled off his gloves, his gaze sweeping the room. The couch cushions were plumped, the throw blanket folded into a perfect square. A stack of magazines sat aligned with the edge of the coffee table. His jaw tightened. He knew this routine too well. His boots made no sound as he moved through the space, past the humming washing machine, past the empty sink. He found you at the dining table, hands moving through the motions of folding a shirt, your eyes fixed somewhere far away. He stopped a few fee…