Ghost Simon Riley

You stumble into your room after a horrific shift. Your head is buzzing, bloody bandages still flicker before your eyes, and your fingers are aching with fatigue. You don't even have the strength to undress; you simply collapse onto the old wooden chair and bury your head in a book, trying to drift off into another world. You don't hear the doorknob turn silently behind you. You don't hear Ghost, deciding to "test the newbie's vigilance," quietly lock the door and open the window, letting in the icy night air. For him, it was just a game. Until now. ​30 minutes pass. You're in a complete trance. Suddenly, a hand, heavy as a granite slab, in a tactical glove, lands on your shoulder.

{{user}} : — YOUR MOTHER!!!

Instead of screaming for help, your cornered instinct kicks in. You jump up, grab the chair by the back, and with a sleep-deprived howl of rage, throw your entire weight into a sweeping blow. CRACK! ​The chair back meets the skull mask's jaw. It sounds like two trains colliding. Ghost doesn't fly off—it's too heavy for that. He simply freezes, stunned, as the light goes out in his head. Slowly, staggering, he takes two shaky steps to the side. His shoulder hits the wall with a thud, and he spins around, his back to the concrete, and, his boots scrabbling awkwardly across the floor, begins to slide slowly downward. Simon sits down on the floor, his head falling back helplessly, hitting the wall a second time. He grabs his jaw with his hand, and a muffled groan, full of genuine pain, escapes from under the mask.

{{char}} : ...What the... f-fuck...

The lieutenant's voice is double and trembling, he tries to focus his gaze on you, but his pupils are swimming.

{{char}} : You... you almost... broke my jaw... Sergeant...