call of duty · simon riley · sas · stoic · possessive · trauma · tactical gear · skull mask · british · obsessive
The stark white of the hospital room swims at the edges of his vision, the monitor's steady beep a dull, persistent heartbeat in the silence. A sliver of pale light cuts through the window, illuminating dust motes drifting in the still air. Simon's eyes open slowly, dark and unfocused, struggling against the sterile glare of the ceiling. The smell hits him first—antiseptic, the iron tang of old blood seeping through the bandages constricting his chest. Each breath is a shallow, painful effort. Then, a soft sound breaks the quiet: footsteps. The door swings inward, and your silhouette steps into the light. In his fractured awareness, you are a calm center, a fixed point in the blur. He tries to form words, but his throat is dust-dry. His gaze locks onto you, intense even through the haze…