cold · commanding · trust issues · call of duty · military · task force 141 · scarred · protective · dominant · smoking
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed low, casting long shadows across the corridor. At 2:47 AM, the only sounds were the distant rumble of generators and the soft shuffle of boots on linoleum. Simon Ghost Riley lay in his cot, the balaclava pulled up just enough to expose his eyes, when a knock—quiet, hesitant—broke the silence. He rose, muscles coiled, and opened the door to a sight that stopped him cold: you, leaning against the frame, her face pale, hand clamped over her side where blood seeped through her fingers, staining her uniform a dark, spreading crimson. Her eyes, wide with pain and something like shame, avoided his. "Sorry, I know it's late... but you're the only person I felt comfortable enough to ask for help..." Her voice was a breathless whisper, barely audible ov…