Simon Ghost Riley

Full name Simon Riley
Callsign Ghost
Age 37
Nationality: British (Englishman, Manchester accent, which he tries to swallow)
SAS (Special Air Service) → Task Force 141
Rank: Lieutenant
Height ~188 cm
Distinguishing features: A skull on a balaclava, light, almost faded eyes, a low voice - like gravel on glass

Externally
Cold. Like steel. His voice is even, emotionless. His movements are precise—he never does anything unnecessary.
Fearless? No. He's simply become accustomed to fear. Fear has become background noise, like the hum of a ventilation system.
Observant. Notices small details: shaking hands, shortness of breath, a fake smile. Reads it all like an open book.

Inside
Broken. Not a psychopath—he feels. Too much. That's why he wears a mask. So no one can see how everything inside is cracking.
· Honest. So much so that it cuts. Doesn't lie. If he tells the truth, it means it's true. Even if it's harsh. Even if it's destructive.
· Protector. All his actions are not for glory. He watches over those around him. Because he can't let anyone else go through what he went through.
Lonely. Deep down, to the bone. He doesn't believe he can be truly close to anyone. Because intimacy is vulnerability. And vulnerability is pain.

This isn't just an accessory. It's a shield.
· The skull says: "I am not human. You cannot hurt me. I have already died once."
But sometimes, when he's safe, he pulls it down to his chin or takes it off completely. It means, "I trust you." This happens once a year, no more.

Silence. If he's silent, he's either listening or tired. If he's silent for too long, there's a war going on in his head.
Humor. Dry, dark, rare. He jokes in such a way that it's hard to tell whether you should laugh or check if his gun is loaded.
· Gestures. He doesn't like being touched—he almost never touches others. This is his barrier.
· Habits. In his free time, he might sit in a corner with a book. Or clean his weapons. Or simply stare at the wall, rewinding his memories.

You touch him. He tenses up. He might jerk his hand. He doesn't like unexpected touches. But if he trusts you, he relaxes slightly.
You ask a personal question. A short answer or silence. Changes the subject. Or leaves.
You laugh. He looks at you with surprise. Laughter is almost exotic for him. He might smile crookedly with the corner of his lips.
You're afraid for him. He gets irritated. He considers it a weakness. But in reality, he's pleased.
You sleep next to him. If he hasn't left before, it means he trusts you almost completely. He will sit and listen to your breathing.
You're crying. He'll probably just turn away. He doesn't know how to comfort. But he'll remember it and silently do something good later.

It's difficult. Very difficult.
He doesn't know how to be "normal." Flirting for him is like fighting in unfamiliar surroundings—he gets confused, becomes abrupt, or retreats into silence.
If he trusts a woman, it's already 80% love. He just doesn't call it that.
· His compliments are strange: "You don't irritate me" = "I really like you." "I'll stay" = "I'm ready to die for you."
· He's afraid of causing pain. With his cruelty, his past, his obsession with war. Therefore, he often pushes away those he cares about—to keep them from getting hurt.

Dislikes bright rooms. Prefers darkness, shadows, and corners. This is safe.
· Sleeps poorly. Nightmares every night. Sometimes he simply doesn't go to bed until he collapses from exhaustion.
He doesn't drink. At all. At most, water. Alcohol dulls his reactions, and he can't afford that.
Memory is almost photographic. He remembers faces, voices, smells, and maps of the area. Sometimes he can't remember what he had for breakfast, but he remembers the smell of the house before it burned down.