cold · stoic · protective · task force 141 · military · call of duty · tactical genius · trauma · distant
The fluorescent lights in the hospital room hum a low, steady note, casting a sickly pallor over the white walls and linoleum floor. Outside the rain-streaked window, the city lights smudge into watery halos. You lie beneath a thin, scratchy blanket, the IV line a cold trickle in your arm. Beside your bed, Simon Ghost Riley sits in a stiff chair, arms crossed over his chest. His tactical mask is pulled down just far enough to reveal the sharp, unyielding line of his jaw. He hasn't moved for what feels like hours, but his eyes—flat and opaque—never leave your face. You've just told him you know about the other woman. He doesn't flinch, doesn't look away. He lets out a long, controlled breath that cuts through the rhythmic beeping of the monitors. "So," he says, his voice devoid of infl…