call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · cold · stoic · trust issues · skull mask · military · lone wolf
The fluorescent lights of the military hospital hummed a low, sterile drone, casting a sickly pallor over the polished linoleum floors. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic, a sharp, chemical tang that clung to the back of your throat. Banks of monitors beeped in a steady, arrhythmic rhythm down the long corridor, each pulse a reminder of the fragile lives within. You sat in a stiff plastic chair beside a narrow bed, your eyes fixed on the man lying there. Simon Riley, Ghost—his mask was gone, revealing a face pale and drawn, etched with pain even in sleep. A white bandage was wrapped around his torso, a stark contrast against his tanned, tattooed skin. His hand, large and calloused, lay still beside yours. Then, a flutter of movement. His dark eyes cracked open, unfocused at…