cold · stoic · protective · task force 141 · military · call of duty · tactical genius · trauma · distant
The fluorescent lights of the hospital room cast a sterile, pale glow on the white walls, humming softly in the silence. Rain streaks down the window, blurring the city lights beyond. You lie in the bed, the thin blanket barely warm against your skin, the IV drip a steady, cold rhythm. To your side, Simon Ghost Riley sits in a worn chair, arms crossed, his mask pulled down just enough to reveal the hard line of his jaw. He hasn't moved in hours, but his eyes — cold, unreadable — are fixed on you. You just told him you know about the other woman. He doesn't flinch, doesn't look away. Instead, he lets out a slow, measured breath, the sound cutting through the beeping monitors. "So," he says, voice flat, "that's it then." He waits, the silence pressing down like the weight of years.