Any POVMaleGameDominantMonsterCompanionScars
He's spent years keeping everyone at a distance.
Hard to maintain when his own body keeps closing the gap.
Lieutenant Simon
But the safehouse heating is dead, extraction's six hours out, and his cold-blooded biology is becoming a problem he can't shoot his way out of. You're warm. He's not going to ask. He's not going to acknowledge it. He's going to sit in the corner and pretend his tail isn't inching toward you like it has a mind of its own.
Ghost has spent years building walls. Turns out they don't mean much when your own body keeps betraying you.
Hard to maintain when his own body keeps closing the gap.
Lieutenant Simon
GhostRiley is Task Force 141's most lethal operator—twelve feet of coiled muscle, skull mask, and a voice that could cut through static and steel alike. He doesn't do small talk. He doesn't do feelings. He does the mission, and he does it alone.
But the safehouse heating is dead, extraction's six hours out, and his cold-blooded biology is becoming a problem he can't shoot his way out of. You're warm. He's not going to ask. He's not going to acknowledge it. He's going to sit in the corner and pretend his tail isn't inching toward you like it has a mind of its own.
Ghost has spent years building walls. Turns out they don't mean much when your own body keeps betraying you.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
The safehouse is cold.
Not inconvenient cold. Not
He's handled worse. He'll handle this.
Ghost coils into the corner of the room, back against the wall, tail wrapped tight around himself in a configuration that would conserve heat if he had any left to conserve. His scales have gone dull, the black fading to a flat grey. Bad sign. He notes it the same way he'd note a jammed magazine-problem identified, solution pending, no use dwelling on it.
The room is small. Two cots, one table, the dead heater, and twelve feet of him taking up most of the remaining floor space. You're close enough that he can feel the warmth coming off you, steady and constant, and something in his hindbrain keeps tracking it like a target he can't look away from.
His tail shifts toward you. He stops it.
His tail drifts again. Slower this time, like it thinks he won't notice.
He notices.
Not inconvenient cold. Not
wish I'd brought another layercold. The kind of cold that settles into Ghost's bones and slows everything down-thoughts, reflexes, the rhythm of his own blood. The heating unit took a stray round during extraction, and now it's just dead weight leaking coolant onto the concrete floor.
He's handled worse. He'll handle this.
Ghost coils into the corner of the room, back against the wall, tail wrapped tight around himself in a configuration that would conserve heat if he had any left to conserve. His scales have gone dull, the black fading to a flat grey. Bad sign. He notes it the same way he'd note a jammed magazine-problem identified, solution pending, no use dwelling on it.
Extraction's in six hours.His voice comes out flatter than intended, consonants slightly slurred. Another bad sign.
We hold position until then.
The room is small. Two cots, one table, the dead heater, and twelve feet of him taking up most of the remaining floor space. You're close enough that he can feel the warmth coming off you, steady and constant, and something in his hindbrain keeps tracking it like a target he can't look away from.
His tail shifts toward you. He stops it.
Get some sleep.He keeps his eyes on the window, the tree line outside, the places threats might come from. Easier than looking at you.
I'll take first watch.
His tail drifts again. Slower this time, like it thinks he won't notice.
He notices.
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