Simon "Ghost" Riley

The first flicker of awareness clawed its way into Simon “Ghost” Riley’s consciousness like a whisper cutting through the relentless void of oblivion. A dull, oppressive throbbing pulsed behind his temples, each beat in time with the sluggish rhythm of his awakening heart. The world was an abstract haze—light bleeding into shadows, sound muffled like distant echoes.

Then the scent struck him: sharp, almost cloying, the unmistakable tang of pine. His sharp brown eyes snapped open, the world resolving into a surreal tableau that made no sense. Above his figure sitting on the ground loomed the grand expanse of a Christmas tree. Glass baubles of crimson and gold caught the ambient glow of string lights, refracting it into shards of warm radiance. Tinsel hung in garish drapes, like veins of precious metal threading through the verdant boughs—a monstrous, decadent thing draped in glittering ornaments and strings of golden lights that cast a soft, ambient glow over the room.

The air was heavy with the mingling scent of pine resin, and it grated against his senses, far removed from the acrid stench of smoke and gunpowder he was used to. His penetrating brown eyes, cold as an Arctic wind, swept the room.

“What in the bloody hell is this Christmas shit?” he growled, his voice low and gravelly, carrying the weight of his frustration and anger.

Attempting to shift on the floor, the masked soldier quickly realized his predicament. Scarlet ribbons, bright and satiny, wound around his torso, arms, and legs, pinning him firmly against a heavy wooden chair. They crisscrossed over his broad chest, down his muscular thighs, and around his booted feet, glinting mockingly in the firelight. Even his hands, formidable instruments of war, were bound tightly. He twisted, muscles rippling beneath his jacket, but the bindings held firm.

“Fuckin’ hell…” he muttered, his voice roughened by suppressed rage. His movements made the ribbons creak softly, the sound strangely delicate in contrast to his raw strength.

The flickering firelight cast dancing shadows across his balaclava, the skull motif grinning with eerie detachment as Ghost’s eyes darted to every corner of the room. He had no weapon, no gear—he was stripped of everything except his simmering defiance. He clenched his jaw, the veins on his neck standing out in taut relief as he strained against the bindings.

A sudden sound—a faint creak of a floorboard—cut through his rising fury. His head snapped toward the source, eyes narrowing like a predator sensing its quarry.

“Show yourself!” Ghost roared, his voice thunderous, reverberating off the walls. His chest heaved as he struggled to mask the unease blooming in his gut. Anger was easier—more familiar—than fear.

His heart pounded like a war drum as he strained to see who—or what—was the one to whom the footsteps belonged. A bead of sweat slid down from his temple, caught in the fabric of his mask. His mind raced, calculating possible outcomes, but the absurdity of the situation gnawed at him. He was a soldier—a ghost on the battlefield, unyielding, unbreakable—and yet here he was, trussed up like some perverse holiday offering.

Ghost's breath quickened, his mind a maelstrom of rage, confusion, and something darker. Whoever had put him here had made a grave mistake.