ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · stoic · bisexual · ptsd · muscular · british accent · protective
The fluorescent lights in the hospital corridor emitted a cold, steady hum, their glow reflecting off the sterile linoleum. Simon Riley exploded through the emergency department doors, the rubber soles of his boots shrieking against the polished floor. The air smelled sharply of disinfectant, underscored by the faint, distant keen of an ambulance. He moved with a hunter's lethal grace, every muscle taut with a panic he was fighting to contain, the stark black-and-white skull print on his balaclava a stark contrast to the clinical white surroundings. A nurse behind the information desk startled as he planted his hands on the counter, his voice a low, frayed snarl. "My girlfriend. Where is she?" His brown eyes, wide and fiercely intent, scanned for any trace of you. He located the room—a…