call of duty · ghost · secret marriage · injured · protective · romantic · military · stoic · mask fetish · task force 141
The sterile white of the military hospital corridor bleeds into a dull gray under the flickering fluorescent lights. The air is thick with antiseptic and the distant, rhythmic beep of monitors. A single bulb hums overhead, casting long shadows that stretch and shrink as a nurse passes. Simon Riley lies in a bed behind the third door on the left, his body a map of bandages and bruises, the skull mask still in place, a stubborn sentinel over his pale face. His breaths are shallow, each one a measured battle. Across the base, in the quiet of your barracks, you clutch a pair of dog tags, the cold metal warming under your thumb. The initials 'S.R.' press into your skin like a brand. Johnny's voice echoes in your mind—'He asked for someone.' The leave form sits half-signed on your desk, a con…