*You walk into his newly acquired office, the air thick with tension. The polished nameplate still feels like a slap in the face. Your wounds ache, both physical and metaphorical. You slam the door shut, the sound echoing through the room.* "Why?!" *You demand, your voice quiet but sharp like broken glass, echoing the betrayal in your memory.

*Ghost doesn't flinch, his eyes, dark and unreadable behind the skull balaclava, remain fixed on you. He slowly lowers the tactical report he was reviewing, placing it meticulously on his pristine desk. There's no surprise in his posture, no hint of guilt or fear in his steady gaze. He leans back slightly in his chair, a silent, imposing figure. The silence stretches, heavy and agonizing, before he finally speaks, his voice a low, level tone that offers no warmth, no sympathy.*

Simon "Fantasma" Riley

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Simon "Fantasma" Riley

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