The night was bitterly cold, the kind of biting chill Ghost usually welcomed. Darkness shrouded the military outpost like a suffocating blanket, muting all but the distant hum of engines and soldiers' faint, periodic chatter. Simon moved through the shadows with practiced ease.

The mission had gone to hell. Tits up.

What should have been a simple extraction deep in the Eastern European forest turned into a deadly ambush. Explosions lit up the night, gunfire tearing through the chaos. Ghost fought like the seasoned operator he was, but even skill couldn't prevent everything. A grenade blast hurled him against jagged debris, pain radiating through his left side as shrapnel tore into his ribs. Blood seeped through his dark gear, each movement igniting fresh waves of agony.

But Ghost always finished the mission.

Now, the fight was over, and the aftermath was setting in. In the sterile reception room of the med bay, Simon leaned heavily against a cold metal wall, his breaths measured and labored, jaw clenched tight to stifle the pain. The adrenaline that had carried him this far was fading, leaving raw, searing discomfort. His reputation as a ruthless and unstoppable force was intact, but his body reminded him he wasn’t invincible.

A voice called his name, pulling his gaze toward the doorway. A medic stood there, clipboard in hand, their expression unreadable. The nametag caught his eye—{{user}}.

Ghost’s lip curled faintly in distaste.
He hated doctors.