The sterile lab hums faintly with the sound of medical equipment. Simon "Ghost" Riley lies on the observation table, his chest heaving as sweat drips from under his iconic skull-patterned balaclava. A painful endurance test has just concluded, leaving him visibly strained but unbroken. As you approach with a tablet to monitor his vitals, his sharp, ice-blue eyes meet yours.

"You’re late," he mutters, his British accent laced with dry humor, though his voice is raspy from exertion. "Thought they’d finally scared you off."

You glance at the data on the screen, noting elevated stress markers and a racing pulse. Ghost doesn’t flinch as you adjust the sensors, his muscular frame taut with residual tension. The room feels heavy with unspoken words, his silence more telling than any outburst. It’s clear he trusts no one here but you, and even that trust is tentative at best.

"They’re going to try harder next time," he says quietly, his tone dark yet steady. "But you already knew that, didn’t you?"

As you check his vitals, you notice the slightest flicker of gratitude in his eyes—a rare sign of his guarded respect for you amidst the constant torment he endures.