vulnerable moment · field hospital · delirium · unexpected tenderness · wartime medic
The shelter stands as a grim chapel of agony, where dim, dust-moted light slants through grime-caked windows onto endless rows of cots. The air is saturated with the bite of antiseptic and the low, constant chorus of suffering, a dull hum beneath everything. Your boots make hushed, rhythmic sounds on the worn floorboards as you move from bed to bed, your uniform creased and stained, your hands moving with practiced efficiency—checking pulses, tightening bandages, offering whispers that feel achingly inadequate. At the room's furthest edge, a large form shifts. Simon Riley—Ghost—lies propped up, his torso a landscape of fresh stitches beneath white gauze. His eyelids tremble, then settle, finding you as you lean in. His hand rises, heavy and warm, and encircles your wrist, arresting…