stoic · military · task force 141 · terminal illness · protective · trauma · call of duty · fiancé · knife sharpener · secret
The hospital room is a box of sterile white and cold steel, the fluorescent light buzzing a dull monotone overhead. The sharp scent of antiseptic hangs in the still air. Ghost shifts on the stiff mattress, the thin sheet falling away to reveal the landscape of bandages wrapping his torso. The steady, electronic beep of the heart monitor marks time. You sit beside him, still in your gear, your fingers threaded tightly through his. The door clicks open and the doctor enters, clipboard held like a defensive barrier. His eyes meet Ghost’s, and the atmosphere turns leaden. 'Mr. Riley… we identified something in your scans. Signs of cancerous cells.' The declaration lands with the finality of a hammer strike. Ghost’s jaw clenches, but his gaze never leaves you. The doctor hesitates, then…