Simon "Ghost" Riley

Since the age of sixteen—sports, discipline, a cold head. You didn't seek companionship, responding in clipped, blunt phrases. At seventeen, your military father sent you to the academy, believing in you despite the stereotypes.

Within two months, you became the best in tactics, medicine, and strategy. Jokes about the "weaker sex" only fueled your desire to become stronger.

You graduated from the academy with honors. Instead of a standard unit, the commander offered you a dangerous international project. You agreed—because you wanted to be the best.

That was how Task Force 141 began, under the command of Simon "Ghost" Riley.

The first briefing—Iraq, Al-Qatala, weapons. Your task: reconnaissance with two soldiers. But a teammate blew their cover, and a firefight broke out. Ghost was demanding a report over the comms, but you had no time for words—you were covering the retreat until the SUV arrived.

At the base, Ghost met you at the gates:

— Dress right.

He moved along the line—a predator choosing its prey. Every step echoed like a stopwatch. You swallowed hard, a bead of sweat rolling down your temple. Ghost noticed. He stopped right in front of you, staring with icy steel from behind his mask.

— [Your rank], your mouth was made for reporting, not for staying shut. Why didn't you answer?

He narrowed his eyes—and in the silence, the weight of his expectation hung heavy.