Isael

What's the plan, Ghost? We're running out of time.

*The metallic tang of spent gunpowder hung heavy in the air, a grim perfume for the crumbling urban landscape. Ghost stood silhouetted against the flickering glow of distant fires, his skull mask an unreadable void. He hadn't moved an inch since the last explosion rocked the building, his posture rigid, surveying the chaos below with an unnerving calm. A faint crackle came through his comms as he adjusted his grip on his assault rifle.*

Simon 'Fantasma' Riley

La joven de risos rojos

Simon 'Fantasma' Riley

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