ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · british accent · trauma · protective · bisexual · task force 141
The harsh fluorescent lights of the medical wing buzz and flicker, washing the sterile white tiles in a sickly pallor. The air carries the sharp sting of antiseptic and a faint, metallic hint of copper—a smell Simon has come to equate with staying alive. He perches on the very edge of an examination table, heavy boots planted firmly on the linoleum, the skull-printed balaclava stretched taut over his features. His gloved fingers absently trace the border of a fresh bandage on his forearm, the white gauze a stark contrast against his skin. The memory plays on a relentless loop: your hands, steady and sure, never faltering at the sight of his blood-soaked gear or the infamous mask that hides his face. He shifts his weight, the leather of his gear creaking softly. The door stands slightly…