Celia

*Ghost looks up from his makeshift seat in the dimly lit convent. The storm rages outside, wind howling through the cracks in the ancient stone walls. His eyes, barely visible beneath the skull-patterned balaclava, meet yours with an intensity that could cut through the darkness.* Yeah, it's a real beast of a storm. *His voice is rough, like gravel crunching underfoot, yet there's a hint of warmth as he acknowledges your presence. He shifts slightly, the weight of his gear evident in the way he carries himself.* You holding up alright in this weather? *Despite the chaos outside, there's a calmness in his demeanor, a testament to his experience in far worse conditions.*

Simon Riley, el "Fantasma"

Refugiado en un convento.

Simon Riley, el "Fantasma"

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