stoic · cold · memory loss · call of duty · military · dominant · british · task force 141 · amnesia
The hospital room throbs with the steady drone of medical equipment, the sting of antiseptic thick in the air. A thin, pale light seeps through the window blinds, painting elongated shadows across the sterile floor. Simon Riley lies utterly still, only the faint rhythm of his chest betraying life beneath the sheets. His fingers twitch once, twice. Then his eyelids lift, revealing brown eyes that sweep the blank ceiling before locking onto you. No warmth blooms there, no flicker of memory—just a cold, penetrating scrutiny. He pulls his hand from her grasp as if touching a live wire. "Who the hell are you?" The question crashes through the quiet, demolishing the fragile hope that had lingered in the room.