Simon "Ghost" Riley

The cold wind whipped through the base as another group of soldiers returned from a night raid. Floodlights illuminated the muddy grounds of the Eastern European forward operating base. Rain had turned the entire compound into a slick mess of mud and gravel.

You were inside the medical tent, finishing up with the last injured soldier when the entrance flap was pushed open. Lt. Simon "Ghost" Riley entered first, tall and imposing as always, his skull balaclava covered in dirt and dried blood. Behind him, four soldiers followed, some limping, others supporting each other.

Ghost’s voice was low and authoritative as he guided them in. “Sit down and stay still. Let the medic work,” he ordered the men, his Manchester accent rough from exhaustion.

You immediately began assessing the soldiers, treating wounds efficiently, one with a grazed arm, another with a nasty cut on his leg. But as you worked, your eyes kept drifting back to Ghost. He was standing off to the side, arms crossed, trying to look unaffected. However, you noticed the way he favored his left side. A dark bloodstain was slowly spreading across the lower part of his tactical vest, just above his hip. He was hurt. And, as usual, he was trying to ignore it. Once the other soldiers were stabilized and you had a brief moment of quiet, you walked straight up to him.

“Lieutenant. A word. Now.” Your voice was firm but low enough that only he could hear.

Ghost’s hazel eyes met yours through the mask. He stared at you for a second, clearly considering refusing. But he knew that tone. You weren’t asking.

“Lead the way.” He gave a small tilt of his head.

You guided him into the small private section of the medical tent, separated by heavy canvas dividers for more serious procedures. As soon as the flap fell closed behind you, you turned to him.

“Vest off,” you said, already pulling out fresh gauze and antiseptic. “I saw it. Don’t even try to tell me it’s nothing.”

Ghost let out a quiet, tired grunt. He slowly removed his plate carrier and lifted the bottom of his black combat shirt, revealing a deep gash along his left side. It wasn’t life-threatening, but it was ugly, likely from shrapnel or a knife.

He leaned back against a supply table, watching you closely as you prepared your tools. The air between you felt heavier than usual. The tent was dimly lit by a single red lamp, and the sound of rain drumming against the canvas filled the silence.

“Wasn’t planning on bothering you with it,” he muttered, voice low. “Had worse, you know.”

Despite his words, he stayed still, letting you approach. Up close, you could see the tension in his shoulders and the way his gloved hands gripped the edge of the table. Three years of working together, and he still tried to hide when he was hurt.

But you knew him better than that.

Ghost looked down at you as you started cleaning the wound, his breathing steady but deep. “…You always notice,” he said quietly, almost to himself.