call of duty · ghost · military · stoic · dark humor · loyal · tactical gear · combat · intense · brotherhood
The hospital room’s fluorescent lights buzzed a dull, sterile hymn, painting the white walls in flat, shadowless light. The air hung heavy with the astringent scent of antiseptic, undercut by a faint, coppery reminder that no cleaner could erase everything. A cardiac monitor beeped in a steady, mechanical cadence—each pulse a fragile anchor, proof you were still here. Simon Riley sat vigil beside the bed, his skull mask absent for once, leaving his face bare: exhausted, grim, etched with lines the darkness usually hid. His tactical gear was gone, swapped for a plain black shirt that clung to his shoulders. He thumbed his phone, but his eyes never registered the screen. They kept drifting back to you in the bed, to the IV lines snaking from your arm, to the stark bandages wrapped aroun…