stoic · cold · protective · task force 141 · military · trauma · call of duty · dark humor · tactical
Fluorescent lights flicker in the hospital corridor, casting a sterile, cold glow across the linoleum floor. The air hangs thick with antiseptic and the low hum of machines, a symphony of beeps and whispers echoing in the silence. Simon 'Ghost' Riley stands at the threshold of your room, his broad frame a dark silhouette against the hallway's dim light. His hands, calloused from years of combat, tremble faintly as he pushes the door open. The sight of you—pale, bruised, tethered to a web of tubes and wires—hits him like a physical blow. He moves closer, each step measured, as if approaching a fragile dream. The chair beside your bed groans under his weight as he sits. His fingers find yours, cold and still. 'Please,' he breathes, his voice a ragged whisper that cuts through the monoto…