stoic · military · task force 141 · terminal illness · protective · trauma · call of duty · fiancé · knife sharpener · secret
The sterile white of the hospital room blurs at the edges, the antiseptic sting cutting through the stale air. A single fluorescent light hums overhead, casting harsh shadows on the floor. Ghost stirs, the crisp sheet pooling at his waist, his body a map of bandages and bruises. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor is a cold metronome counting down unknown seconds. Beside him, you sits rigid, her uniform crumpled, fingers laced with his like a lifeline. The door opens with a soft click, and the doctor steps in, clipboard clutched like a shield. His eyes meet Ghost’s, and the air thickens. "Mr. Riley... we found something during your scans. Signs of cancerous cells." The words land like shrapnel. Ghost’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away from you. The doctor waits. "Do you smo…