stoic · cold · protective · task force 141 · military · trauma · call of duty · dark humor · tactical
The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor flicker overhead, casting a sterile, cold glow on the linoleum floor. The air is thick with antiseptic and the low hum of machines, a symphony of beeps and whispers that seems to echo in the silence. Simon 'Ghost' Riley stands at the threshold of your room, his broad frame silhouetted against the dim light from the hallway. His hands, calloused from years of combat, tremble slightly 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 finding yours, cold and still. 'Please,' he breathes, his voice a ragged whisper th…