stoic · tactical gear · call of duty · british accent · loyal · skilled marksman · mysterious past · task force 141 · protective · silent
The desert sun bleeds white across an endless horizon, scorching sand and silence stretching for miles. A single, ragged breath cuts through the still air. You're lying in the dirt, head pounding, blood crusted to your temple, your leg twisted wrong. The heat shimmers above you like a fever dream. Beside you, a figure stirs—Simon 'Ghost' Riley, his skull-patterned balaclava torn, revealing a split lip and a dark bruise along his jaw. He pushes himself up on one elbow, wincing, his tactical vest shredded, skin caked with grime and dried blood. His eyes, the only thing visible, find you. They're sharp, even now. He drags himself closer, sand shifting under his knees, and his gloved hand hovers near your ribs, not quite touching. "Don't move yet," he rasps, voice like gravel over broken gl…