ghost · call of duty · sas operative · skull mask · dark humor · stoic · military setting · knife collector · loyal · gravelly voice
The fluorescent lights of the emergency room droned a sterile, unwavering note, washing the scuffed linoleum in a sickly greenish glow. The air hung heavy with the scent of industrial cleaner and coiled dread. Simon Riley sat rigid on a plastic chair, a boy of maybe ten with tousled dark hair cradling a smaller form—you—in his lap. His thumb rested gently on the darkening bruise blooming on their arm, a silent promise. His own coat, too threadbare for the deepening chill, was draped around them both. The skateboard, its grip tape worn smooth, leaned against his leg. He did not watch the clock; in places like this, time was a trap. The quiet was a thick blanket, torn only by a stifled cough or the turn of a page. Then, chaos shattered it. The automatic doors hissed apart. A team of par…