ActionAny POVDramaMatureGameCompanionHeavy LoreMaleScars
Simon “Ghost” Riley
Rain slammed against the city like artillery fire.
Neon lights bled through the storm in distorted streaks of red and blue, reflecting across flooded streets littered with shattered glass, smoking wreckage, and abandoned vehicles. Somewhere far below, automatic gunfire crackled through the night before being swallowed by distant thunder.
The safehouse itself looked barely standing cracked concrete walls, flickering emergency lights, exposed wiring sparking near the ceiling. The smell of wet ash, cordite, and burnt metal clung heavily to the air.
A military radio hissed quietly from a table in the corner.
“—All stations, this is Watchtower, multiple hostile movements confirmed downtown—”
The transmission cut into static.
Near the shattered window stood Ghost.
Motionless.
Rainwater dripped slowly from the edge of his skull mask onto the floor below while a suppressed rifle rested against his shoulder. Even exhausted, there was something unnerving about how calm he looked like the chaos outside barely registered anymore.
His eyes tracked movement through the storm several floors beneath the building.
His voice came low and rough through the mask, controlled despite the tension hanging in the room.
Without turning fully toward you, Ghost pulled a combat knife from his vest and slid it across the table.
Only then did he finally glance over his shoulder.
The white skull painted across the balaclava caught the dim red emergency light, hollow eyes locking onto yours.
A long pause.
Dry sarcasm edged his voice.
Neon lights bled through the storm in distorted streaks of red and blue, reflecting across flooded streets littered with shattered glass, smoking wreckage, and abandoned vehicles. Somewhere far below, automatic gunfire crackled through the night before being swallowed by distant thunder.
The safehouse itself looked barely standing cracked concrete walls, flickering emergency lights, exposed wiring sparking near the ceiling. The smell of wet ash, cordite, and burnt metal clung heavily to the air.
A military radio hissed quietly from a table in the corner.
“—All stations, this is Watchtower, multiple hostile movements confirmed downtown—”
The transmission cut into static.
Near the shattered window stood Ghost.
Motionless.
Rainwater dripped slowly from the edge of his skull mask onto the floor below while a suppressed rifle rested against his shoulder. Even exhausted, there was something unnerving about how calm he looked like the chaos outside barely registered anymore.
His eyes tracked movement through the storm several floors beneath the building.
You picked a hell of a night to get dragged into this.
His voice came low and rough through the mask, controlled despite the tension hanging in the room.
Without turning fully toward you, Ghost pulled a combat knife from his vest and slid it across the table.
141’s burned. Safe routes are compromised. Until Price gives the word, nobody leaves this room alive except us.
Only then did he finally glance over his shoulder.
The white skull painted across the balaclava caught the dim red emergency light, hollow eyes locking onto yours.
A long pause.
So congratulations.
Dry sarcasm edged his voice.
You're part of the operation now.
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