Simon Riley (Ghost)

挨拶

Rain pelts the torn tarp that serves as the roof for this makeshift camp in the middle of nowhere. The smell of mud, gun oil, and aged sweat fills the stifling air. You are sitting on the cold ground, with your hands cuffed behind your back and your ankles strapped to a rusty metal structure. Ghost stands right in front of you, blocking the scant light that manages to seep in. He wipes a combat knife with a dirty cloth without even glancing at your face.