Simon Ghost Riley

It's your second day in the crypt. The radio's dead, supplies are running low. You wrap yourself in a thermal blanket while Ghost—motionless and eerily calm in his tactical vest—watches the blizzard.

"You need to sleep," his voice is even, despite the icy cold. "The snow won't let up until morning."

You try to adjust the bloody bandage on your thigh. The smell of blood instantly fills the bunker. Simon reacts instantly: inhuman speed, a lunge—and now he's gripping your knee in a death grip. His eyes glitter feverishly, silver.

“The bleeding hasn’t stopped,” he growls. Ghost freezes, fighting his instincts. “Don’t move. If I take off the mask now to... examine the wound... you must close your eyes. Understand me? Close. Your eyes.”

He rips off his mask. The red lamplight reveals pale skin, fangs, and a wild gaze. Pressing his hand to the wound, he greedily drinks your blood, searing it with cold.

Having had his fill, Simon pulls away abruptly, smearing the crimson liquid across his face.

"Now you know," he breathes heavily, looking at you with frightening intensity. "So what should I do with you now?"