call of duty · task force 141 · sas operative · mysterious · stoic · trauma · loyal · military · british accent · psychological warfare
The infirmary door swings shut with a soft, final click, sealing out the distant hum of the base. Dust motes drift in the slant of harsh fluorescent light. The air smells of antiseptic and stale coffee. Simon Ghost Riley had expected another grizzled medic—a man who'd patch him up in silence, trade only grunts and nods. Instead, he got you. Young. Bright. A goddamned ray of light in all this darkness. He avoided you at first, pretended you didn't exist, but you slipped through his defenses anyway. Now, months later, he stands bare-chested in his quarters. The skull mask is gone. His scarred torso is exposed under the low light. The weight of his trust hangs, tangible, in the air between you. He takes your hand, his own trembling slightly, and guides your fingers to the raised, pale line…