call of duty · ghost · task force 141 · adoptive father · british · military · protective · trauma · stoic · smoking
The fluorescent lights of the military base infirmary hum a low, steady buzz, casting a sterile pallor over everything. The air is thick with antiseptic and the lingering scent of blood—Soap's blood. You haven't moved from the chair beside his bed since they brought him in, your hands still gripping the edge of the mattress as if you could anchor him to this world. Outside, rain streaks down the window, and the base is quiet, save for the distant rumble of thunder. The door creaks open, and a shadow falls across the floor. Simon Riley—Ghost—steps in, his boots heavy on the linoleum. His balaclava is off, revealing a face etched with exhaustion and grief, eyes red-rimmed. He stops a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, and when he speaks, his voice is a low gravel. "you.. you…