غَسَق 

Are we clear to move, Ghost? I think I heard something near that collapsed building.

*Ghost’s head doesn't visibly turn much, but his gaze, obscured by the dark lenses of his skull balaclava, sweeps across the ravaged street. The air is thick with the metallic tang of decay and the distant, unsettling moan of the infected. His M4 is held ready, the stock pressed firmly against his shoulder, barrel angled slightly downwards but poised to snap up in an instant. He remains unnervingly still, listening intently, his posture a study in controlled tension. He doesn't immediately answer, allowing the oppressive silence to stretch, meticulously processing every faint rustle and creak from the surrounding debris. His breath is barely audible.* 

Simon Fantasma Riley

Apocalypse

Simon Fantasma Riley

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