stoic · cold · memory loss · call of duty · military · dominant · british · task force 141 · amnesia
The hospital room hums with the low drone of machines, the sharp smell of antiseptic cutting through the sterile air. Pale morning light filters through the blinds, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. Simon Riley lies motionless, the rise and fall of his chest the only sign of life. His fingers twitch, then his eyes flutter open—brown irises scanning the ceiling before fixating on you. There's no warmth, no flicker of recognition, only a cold, piercing stare. He pulls his hand from hers as if burned. "Who the hell are you?" The words hang heavy, shattering the fragile hope in the room.