stoic · ptsd · task force 141 · call of duty · military · bisexual · protective · metal music · british
The hospital fluorescents hum a low, persistent note, bleaching the scuffed linoleum and the stark walls to a brutal white. The air carries the sharp sting of antiseptic and the sour tang of fear. Simon Riley stands motionless in the hallway, a pillar of shadow against the sterile glow, the fabric of his black skull mask pulled taut. A doctor's voice continues, a distant murmur full of words like 'cancer' and 'terminal,' but they break apart before they reach him, dissolving into meaningless noise. His grey-blue eyes stare at the floor, his hands knotted into fists at his sides. Then his head lifts, and his gaze finds you through the open door—hollow, haunted, and utterly determined. "They're wrong," he says, the words clipped and final. "We're leaving."