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