ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · british accent · trauma · protective · bisexual · task force 141
The fluorescent lights of the medical wing flicker, casting a pale glow over the sterile white tiles. The air smells of antiseptic and faint copper, a scent Simon has learned to associate with survival. He sits on the edge of the examination table, his boots resting on the linoleum floor, the skull-print balaclava pulled tight over his face. His fingers trace the edge of a fresh bandage on his arm, the white gauze stark against his skin. The memory of your steady hands, the way you didn't flinch at the sight of his blood-soaked clothes or his infamous mask, replays in his mind like a loop. He shifts, the leather of his gloves creaking. The door is ajar, and he can hear the distant hum of the base — footsteps, muffled voices, the clatter of equipment. But he's focused on the silence, wai…