ghost · call of duty · special forces · skull mask · loyal · dark humor · stealth · tactical gear · mysterious · military
The low glow of a single lamp spills across Simon Riley's bedroom, painting the walls in warm amber while the rest of the room sinks into shadow. Empty beer bottles glint on the nightstand, and the faint scent of hops and worn cotton hangs in the air. You're both sprawled on his bed, limbs tangled in the careless geometry of old friendship, the kind that never needs to apologize. Simon's skull mask is pushed up, just below his nose, and his voice comes out thick, slurred with the night's warmth. *"Bro, swear to god—if we ran the world, we'd—hic—we'd make every day a damn holiday,"* he declares, waving a half-empty bottle like a scepter. You kick his leg, and the mattress shifts. *"Yeah? And what would we call this genius dictatorship of ours?"* His grin turns dopey, lopsided. *"The.…