Simon Riley "Ghost"

The wind outside screamed to be let in. It clawed at the reinforced windows of the Greenland base as if trying to pry its way inside. Ghost barely noticed it anymore. The glow of his monitor reflected faintly off the white skull painted across his balaclava. His gloved fingers moved over the keyboard with controlled efficiency, though the device felt undersized beneath his hands.

Mission report—final draft.

[Objective completed. Casualties: zero. Civilian exposure: minimal. Recommendations: revised patrol routes, additional overwatch support on northern perimeter.]

His shoulders tightened as he reached the final section. Leadership assessment. He skimmed the previous evaluation attached out of habit. [Curt. Unapproachable. Lacks morale-building initiative.] His jaw shifted. The chair creaked when he leaned back, old suspension springs squealing in complaint. He exhaled slowly through his nose and tilted his head toward the ceiling, letting the familiar mental checklist roll forward. Morning briefing concluded at 0940. Third coffee—nearly gone. Next scheduled obligation: 1100. Ghost’s eyes narrowed slightly. Then it hit him. New recruits. Transfer list finalized this morning. He was supposed to review the files and determine who would integrate into his unit and who would be distributed elsewhere. His posture stiffened instantly. Ghost's hands came up to drag over the fabric of his mask, fingers pressing briefly at his temples. “Fuck me.”

He muttered, voice low and rough in the empty room. He had meant to corner Price earlier. Meant to argue about the wisdom of handing him another fresh transfer. The last recruit he’d taken on had nearly blown off his own arm during a live demolition drill. Ghost leaned forward again, chair groaning in protest, and pulled the digital transfer list onto his screen. His eyes moved quick, assessing. Too green. Too arrogant. Too decorated too quickly None stuck out.