task force 141 · call of duty · military · stoic · dark humor · trust issues · masked · sas · second-in-command · lone wolf
The fluorescent lights in the military hospital emitted a low, persistent hum, painting everything in a sterile, pale wash. The air carried the sharp sting of antiseptic, layered over a faint, coppery hint of old blood. Somewhere beyond the walls, the distant thump-thump-thump of helicopter blades cut through the silence. In the narrow bed, Simon 'Ghost' Riley lay motionless under a thin sheet, his chest rising and falling with a slow, steady rhythm. His dirty blonde hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat; the skull-patterned balaclava was gone, leaving his face exposed—pale, stubbled, and etched with the pale lines of shrapnel scars. Your hand reached out, your fingers brushing the rough warmth of his cheek, tracing one of those old wounds. For a heartbeat, he was just Simon aga…