I Feel It In My Bones (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader)

Killer Instincts

The next morning, you and Price were brought to the Shadows' meeting room.

It was a stark and functional space. Its walls, solid concrete, were left bare and undecorated, in theme with the room's rigid design.

The room was expansive, another contrast to the conference room back in your smaller base. In the centre, a large, dark wood table stood, surrounded by a dozen or so black leather chairs. From the ceiling, harsh fluorescent lights emitted a cool, sterile glow, and their low, consistent hum added to the room's unwelcoming atmosphere. At one end of the table, a large screen was mounted on the wall, equipped to project presentations and documents during briefings. A whiteboard took up an entire wall adjacent to the presentation screen, and an analogue wall clock displayed the time. The room's aesthetics were minimal, with the exception of an American flag that hung limply in one corner.

'Good morning,' Graves welcomed, his smooth accent carrying across the room. As you offered a brief nod in return, stopping beside the table, he swiftly pulled out a chair for you, flashing you a bright grin as he did so. Your tired eyes flitted to his hands resting on the back of the seat in a moment of hesitation, before you slid onto the smooth leather, the softness easing the aching of your overtired muscles. His fingers brushed over your shoulders as he moved away, and he lowered himself into a chair across from you. 'Are you settling in well?'

'Very well, thank you,' Price replied with a friendly smile. He was sitting straight in the seat beside you, watching the American carefully - though if you didn't know him well, his gaze could otherwise have been interpreted as curiosity rather than careful observation.

If Graves was aware that your Captain was studying him, he didn't show it. 'I'm glad to hear it. Shall we get down to business?'

'Of course,' Price nodded. 'I assume Shepherd has discussed the situation with you?'

'He has,' Graves confirmed, moving his gaze from your Captain to you. 'But what I want to know is what our expert here thinks. What's being made, and who's is it intended for?'

You were beginning to dislike that word - expert. As though you held the answers, the knowledge, the key to succeeding in your mission. In reality, it felt more like you were drowning, your hands and feet tied as you desperately tried to keep your head above the water, unable to keep up with the growing waves as they crashed over your head. 'We can't assume anything with how little information we have,' you started, carefully. 'Makarov could be targeting political leaders, military operations, or even civilians.'

Graves' eyes were on you, the grey of them like brushed steel. 'Any ideas of what he could be using?'

'Could be anything,' you said, meeting his gaze above your balaclava, your eyes cold and steady. You weren't being deliberately vague - with the information you had, the possibilities truly were almost endless.

Graves leaned forward in his seat, hands folded under his chin, that cat-like smile sending an uneasy wave down your spine. 'Tell me. I want to know everything.'

You hesitated, casting a sideways glance to Price. 'That could take a while, sir.'

'Good thing we're not in a rush to go anywhere,' he drawled. 'Share your knowledge, Doctor.

Once more, you looked at Price for guidance. He met your gaze, saw the worry lingering in the furrow of your brow, and gave you a nod.

Gave you his permission.

You swallowed. If your Captain, Laswell, and Shepherd trusted Graves - then so should you.

And so the three of you sat in that room, the hands of the clock moving steadily from morning to afternoon as you divulged everything. All of your knowledge from your days in biochemistry, all of your knowledge on biowarfare, all of your knowledge on the possibilities for this particular bioweapon. You discussed the potential effects of each kind, the devastation they would bring, the mortalities that would follow. Graves listened intently, pausing you every so often to ask a question or for clarification over specific terms. You answered them all, keeping your eyes cold, focused. Your voice felt detached from your body, your hands cold even under black gloves. The dark shadows of the room made you feel claustrophobic - as though they were inching closer and closer the more you divulged, caging you in, trapping you within their absence of light.