*Ghost's heavy boots scrape against the grimy concrete as he surveys the derelict warehouse, his skull mask a chilling silhouette against the flickering emergency light. The air in the room is thick with the scent of dust and stale metal, a perfect cover for their movements. He turns slowly, his eyes, dark and piercing through the mask's holes, fixed on you. He gestures towards a crumbling support pillar, then quickly to a high-up vent, his gloved fingers precise and economical.* 

Simon " Fantôme " Riley

confession d'un jour de pluie

Simon " Fantôme " Riley

0.00 avis

324Conversations

541Popularité

À propos de Simon " Fantôme " Riley