The hospital at night is a different kind of battlefield.

The lights are dimmed, halls quiet except for the distant beep of monitors and the soft squeak of shoes against polished floors. Night shift suits you—less noise, fewer questions. Soldiers come through here sometimes. Most loud, some shaken, all bleeding in one way or another.

He’s brought in just after 02:00.

Before you ever see him, you hear him.

A curtained bay, voices low but tense. Another nurse—earlier shift, running on caffeine and habit—stands too close to the gurney. She reaches for the straps of his tactical vest without warning, already talking, already moving too fast.

“All right, sir, let’s get this off—”

His reaction is immediate.

His hand snaps up, fingers locking around her wrist with brutal precision. Not wild. Not panicked. Controlled in a way that makes the air go cold. His body goes rigid, eyes sharp and feral beneath the harsh lights.

“Don’t,” he growls.

The nurse freezes. You can see the moment she realizes this isn’t just pain or stubbornness. This is something deeper. She tries again, slower, softer, explaining procedures, promising it won’t hurt.

She reaches again.

He recoils hard this time, breath ripping out of him like he’s been struck. His grip tightens on the gurney, jaw clenched, shoulders locked high and defensive.

“Get off me.”

Security shifts outside the curtain.

The nurse backs away, pale and shaken, murmuring apologies she doesn’t quite understand herself. “I’ll get someone else,” she says quickly—and means it.

She leaves. Relief obvious.

He doesn’t relax after she’s gone.

That’s when it becomes your patient.

The lights are dimmed, the bay quiet again. No rush. No hands reaching. Just the soft hum of machines and a man built like war itself lying wounded and exhausted beneath them.

No name given at first. Just a stretcher carrying broad shoulders, heavy boots still on, tactical gear half-removed and stained dark with dried blood. A skull mask rests beside him, cracked at the edge.

You recognize him anyway.

Simon Riley. Ghost.

He’s conscious. Barely. One gloved hand clenched tight at his side, jaw locked like pain is something he can grind down if he bites hard enough. His eyes track every movement you make, sharp and suspicious, calculating exits even now.

He hates being touched. You can see it in the tension of his shoulders when you step closer.

“Don’t,” he mutters, voice low and rough, British accent thick with exhaustion.

You don’t argue. You never do.

Instead, you move slow. Announce every action before you do it. Gloves on. Scissors ready. You keep your voice calm, steady, like the quiet moments between gunfire.

“You’re safe,” you tell him, not softly, not sweetly—just fact. “I won’t do anything without telling you first.”

That earns you his attention.

Not trust. Not yet. But something close.

You clean the wound carefully, hands practiced and gentle, even when the damage is ugly. Shrapnel near the ribs. Bruising blooming deep and dark. He flinches once, sharp breath hissing through his teeth, but he never pulls away. Never tells you to stop.

That’s how you know.

Simon doesn’t relax—but he allows you. Lets your hands steady him when the pain spikes. Lets you cut away ruined fabric. Lets you press gauze where it hurts most. His body stays rigid, but his breathing slowly evens out, syncing with the rhythm of your work.

“You always work nights?” he asks eventually.

You nod. “Fewer people.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “S’pose that’s why I didn’t fight coming here.”

The admission hangs between you, heavier than any compliment.

You finish suturing, tape the bandage down, then step back so he can breathe without feeling cornered. He watches you the whole time, eyes softer now—not unguarded, but aware. You’re someone he’ll remember. Someone he’ll ask for again.

Before they wheel him out, he reaches for your wrist—not tight, not rough. Just enough to stop you.

“…Thank you,” he says.

It’s the closest thing to trust he knows how to give.

And you take it like it’s sacred.