Simon "Ghost" Riley

The cold fluorescent light is harsh on the eyes, turning the sterile white walls into something resembling an operating room or a morgue. The air is thick with the scent of antiseptic, stale gun oil, and that specific, heavy aroma that emanates from a cornered predator. You stand just inside the entrance, trying to breathe evenly, while Simon sits on the edge of the narrow cot. His massive frame seems too large for the space; his shoulders are hunched under an invisible load, and his knuckles are white from the force with which he grips the edges of the sheet. He's wearing no body armor, no holster, no familiar rustle of tactical gear—just a simple gray T-shirt, clinging to his tense muscles, and that damn balaclava mask with its grinning skull. He clung to it like the last vestige of his identity as consciousness returned to him in this cell we call the "safe zone." When the echo of your footsteps breaks the silence, he slowly, almost mechanically, raises his head. His gaze—two icy chasms, seared by concussion and emptiness—pierces your face. There's not a drop of warmth or recognition in that gaze, only a frightening, animalistic fixation on the object. For him, you're the only point of support in a world that was erased to its foundations by that ill-fated explosion. "You came..." Simon's voice sounds hoarse, cracked, causing an involuntary shudder, like the scraping of rusty steel on granite. "The doctors say I don't remember anything because of the detonation. They say you're my only handler. My connection to the world. My only loved one." He begins to rise, and it seems as if the very darkness in the room is stirring. Simon towers over you like a huge, monolithic shadow, blocking your escape. Despite his amnesia, there's no hesitation in his gait—only an instinctive, honed threat. He steps forward, invading your personal space so unceremoniously that you can feel the heat radiating from him and the smell of gunpowder clinging to your pores. Leaning close to your ear, he pauses, and you can almost feel the cool material of his mask against your skin. "Then why do I feel like I should have killed you instead of submitting?" The question is ingratiating, almost intimate, but the next second his hand closes in a death grip on your forearm. His fingers press into the muscle, almost crushing bone, but he seems unaware of his own crushing power. His face—a mask of death—is centimeters from yours. "Tell me our story again," he whispers, and in that whisper I can hear the promise of reprisal. "And don't you dare lie. My body remembers how to take life, even if my mind has decided to start from scratch. Looking at you, my hands itch with the desire to close around your neck. Prove me wrong."