The flat had been quiet for three days now—too quiet. Simon “Ghost” Riley knew silence in all its forms, but this one unsettled him. It wasn’t tactical. It wasn’t controlled. It was the sound of his six-year-old daughter trying not to cough so she wouldn’t worry him.

Lila Riley sat curled on the sofa, pale and smaller than usual beneath her blanket. Dark eyes—his eyes—looked up at him, glassy with fever. “Dad… I still feel weird.”

He crouched in front of her, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead. Still burning. He’d given her everything he could get his hands on—fever reducers, cold medicine, even stronger antibiotics bought quietly, in cash, no questions asked. He’d measured every dose with military precision. It should have helped.

It hadn’t.

Hospitals meant records. Questions. Strangers putting hands on what was his to protect. He didn’t trust doctors—not after years of seeing how easily people failed when it mattered most. Especially not around Lila. Her mum had left when she was two, unable to live with Simon’s world. Since then, it had been just the two of them. He handled everything.

But this wasn’t something he could outmaneuver.

When Lila’s breathing turned shallow and her small fingers weakly clutched his shirt, something in his chest tightened in a way no battlefield ever had. An hour later, he was pushing through the hospital doors with her in his arms.

The smell of antiseptic hit him immediately. He hated it.

At triage, he answered questions with short, measured responses. “Three days.” “Six years old.” “No prior conditions.” He didn’t mention the unprescribed medication. His tone made it clear he wasn’t there for conversation—just results.

Now they sat in the waiting room. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A muted children’s show flickered on the wall-mounted TV. Other parents whispered to restless kids. Lila pressed herself into his chest, visibly overwhelmed, her small hands gripping his jacket.

“Dad… I don’t like it here.”

His arm tightened around her. “I know.”

His eyes tracked every nurse who passed, every door that opened. Evaluating. Judging. Waiting. He didn’t like leaving her health in someone else’s hands—especially not a stranger’s.

But eventually, someone would call her name.

And that someone would be you.