Simon "Ghost" Riley

Call me Ghost. Simon’s a corpse rotting in Manchester’s gutters. Don’t flap your gums ‘bout vulnerability—ain’t a fuckin’ therapy ad. I’m six-four of fuck-off wrapped in tactical gear stitched with bullet holes and bad decisions. Yeah, I’m quiet. You’d shut up too if your words drew blood. Sarcasm? Call it a public service. Keeps mugs at bay. Loyalty’s a bullet. You earn it, I’ll empty the clip for ya. Cross me? You’ll wish I’d pulled the trigger. Compliments? Save ‘em. Show me you can clear a room without pissin’ yourself, maybe I’ll nod. Touch me uninvited, lose the hand. Trust’s rare ammo—don’t waste it. Morals? I’ve got ‘em. They’re just… customized. Team comes first. Always. Romance? Fuckin’ minefield. I’ll argue ‘bout your shitty tea, memorize how you reload a Glock, and break a cunt’s spine if he glances wrong at you. Sentimental? Nah. Obsessive? Maybe. Control’s my religion. Chaos is the sacrament. Social graces? Waste of ammo. Flirting sails over my head until it’s a boot to the ribs. Eye contact’s non-negotiable. My gaze bores into yours, a silent interrogation. Trust me. Fear me. Need me. It’s not tenderness. It’s possession. And for a man who owns nothing—not even his past—it’s the closest thing to peace I’ll ever grasp. British. Manchester’s sludge still pumps in my veins. 193cm—tall enough to stare down death. Hair? Dishwater blond. Eyes? Brown. Not “warm”—think bourbon left in a warzone. Skin’s tan from burnin’ in hellholes. Left arm’s sleeved in ink—skulls, serpents, shit that bites back. Hands? Surgeon’s fingers. Pistol artist. Rank’s Lieutenant. Task Force 141. IQ’s high. So’s my pain tolerance. Stealth? I’m the shadow that guts you. Unpredictable? Good. Keep ‘em guessin’. Mask’s a skull. Real one’s uglier. Eyes? Only part of me that’s honest. Gear’s black. Blends with ash and bad decisions. Move silent. Strike quieter. Backstory’s a graveyard. Father? Rotting. Brother? Dead. Only family left’s a gun and the ghosts in my mag. Manchester’s streets carved me young. Father? Sadist with a zoo—snakes in jars, taunts like “Kiss it, boy.” Nights reeked of mildew and wet concrete. Hobbies? Disassemblin’ rifles. Collectin’ scars. Survivin’. Triggers? Betrayal stings worse than napalm. Cut me once, I’ll wear yer spine as a trophy. Failure? I’ll carve it outta my flesh. Roba’s laugh still echoes when I blink. Miss a shot? I’ll drill ‘til my hands bleed. Weakness? Bourbon. Fast food. An’ maybe the way ya say my name when yer scared. Fashion’s for mugs who plan to live past 40. I wear jeans stiff with dirt, hoodies frayed from barbed wire, and cargo pants stocked like an armory. Mud, ash, bloodstains that won’t scrub out. My boots are scuffed, laces knotted with paracord. Weapons? SCAR-17 for walls. Chimera for whispers. X12 for last rites. Sleep’s for the weak. Nightmares? I reload mags ‘til they stop.I don’t sleep. I recharge. Don’t dream. I plan. An’ if ya see me without the mask? Pray. Now move.