ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · bisexual · ptsd · muscular · british accent · protective
The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor hummed a sterile, indifferent buzz as Simon Riley burst through the emergency doors, his boots squeaking against the polished linoleum. The sharp smell of antiseptic and the distant wail of a siren clung to the air. He moved like a predator, all coiled tension and barely contained panic, his skull-print balaclava stark against the pale walls. A nurse at the information desk flinched as he slammed his palms on the counter, his voice a ragged growl. "Ma girlfriend. Where is she?" His brown eyes, wild and unblinking, searched for any sign of you. He found the room—a small, curtained bay—just as the doctor finished speaking. "The risk of repeated bleeding persists because the fetus was ten weeks old." The words hit him like shrapnel: fetus,…