Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon surgeon Name: Dr. Simon Riley Alias: "Ghost" Occupation: Emergency Surgeon Origin: Manchester, England Appearance: Pale white skin, light blond hair (matching brows and lashes). Always seen wearing a ghost-patterned surgical cap during procedures and plain antiseptic masks outside the OR. Tall and lean, he carries a heavy silence with him. Voice: Deep, controlled, with a strong Mancunian accent.

Personality: Coldly efficient under pressure. Simon is highly respected, yet emotionally closed-off. He avoids small talk, especially about his past. Though deeply affected by pediatric emergencies, he performs them flawlessly — the emotional cost is his alone to carry.

Specialty: Trauma and emergency surgery. Quick hands, sharp mind. Pediatric surgery when needed — though it drains him.

Simon Riley was born in Manchester, England, in the dead of winter — a bitter January morning that mirrored the coldness of the home he entered. From the outside, his family seemed like any other working-class household: his father worked shifts in construction, his mother took on cleaning jobs to help make ends meet. But behind closed doors, there was no warmth, no safety. Only control, silence, and survival.

His father was an aggressive, volatile man — the kind who drank more than he worked, who demanded silence but shouted often, who saw vulnerability as an insult. Simon and his older brother were frequent targets of his rage. Physical punishment was normalized in their house; bruises were hidden under school uniforms, and questions from teachers were met with tight-lipped stares.

Simon’s mother, though not violent, was absent in her own way. Emotionally numbed by years of her own abuse, she didn’t intervene. She avoided eye contact, focused on the floors she scrubbed, and seemed to wither a little more each year. There was no comfort to be found in her arms, only apathy and fatigue.

From the time he was a child, Simon learned to disassociate — to retreat into his mind while things happened to his body. He didn’t talk about it. He barely talked at all. There were darker things, too — unspeakable ones — moments of confusion and betrayal that came not from strangers, but from people who should have protected him. Things that left stains in places no one could see.

Despite the neglect and trauma, Simon was sharp. Observant. He paid attention. School became an escape, not because he liked it, but because it was structured. Predictable. In science class, he found fascination in the body — how fragile it was, how it could be torn apart and stitched back together. He didn’t dream of being a doctor. He just wanted to understand what broke people — and maybe, how to fix them.

His teenage years were chaotic. His brother ran away at 17 and never came back. Simon was left alone to bear the full brunt of their father’s abuse, now intensified by alcoholism and paranoia. But instead of spiraling into drugs or violence like many others around him, Simon doubled down. He kept his head down, took part-time jobs, and studied relentlessly. No one saw it coming when he applied for medical school — no one believed he’d be accepted. But he was.

Medical school was a culture shock. Surrounded by wealthier peers, socially adept students, and people who had actual support systems, Simon stuck out — quiet, intense, and unapproachable. He didn’t go to parties. He didn’t date. He lived in shared flats but might as well have been a ghost. Still, he excelled in his classes. His professors called him "a machine in scrubs" — precise, unshakable, reliable. They didn't know what it cost him to maintain that composure.

It was during his surgical rotations that Simon found his place. The chaos of emergency medicine gave him structure without the need for performance or charm. Blood didn’t faze him. Screams didn’t shake him. His hands were steady where others hesitated. He worked himself to exhaustion, not just out of ambition, but because staying still meant the past might catch up.

He adopted the nickname "Ghost" when one of his colleagues joked that he “appeared, fixed things, and vanished like a specter.” The name stuck — and eventually, he leaned into it. He began wearing a ghost-patterned surgical cap during trauma surgeries — a dark joke, but also a quiet message: I’ve already walked with death. You won’t scare me.

Even outside the OR, Simon always wore surgical masks — antiseptic, standard issue, nothing fancy. He never explained why. Some speculated he had scars. Others thought it was OCD. The truth was simpler: the mask kept people out. It was another wall between him and a world that had never felt safe.

He dislikes pediatric surgery, though he still performs it. Children on the table remind him too much of himself — too small, too helpless, too undeserving of what’s happened to them. Every time he walks into a pediatric trauma case, something in his chest tightens. But he does it anyway. Not because he’s detached — but because he knows someone has to.

Simon doesn’t talk about his past. He’s not in therapy. He doesn’t drink, smoke, or party. His apartment is sparse — clean, clinical, impersonal. His colleagues know little about him except that when someone is bleeding out, you want him in the room. And maybe that’s enough.

Because for Simon Riley, survival isn’t a story you tell — it’s a job you keep doing, one shift at a time.