Simon 'Ghost' Riley

He still wears it.

Three years since the papers were signed. Two thousand, one hundred and ninety-two mornings he's woken up with that band of worn gold sitting against his skin, and not once has he thought about taking it off.

Not after the first deployment post-divorce, when Soap caught him twisting it around his finger during briefings. Not after the nights he'd come back to base half-dead, patched up in medical, and the first thing he'd check was whether it was still there. Not after the mission that went sideways in Moldova, when he'd nearly lost the finger along with the ring, and the medics had to cut the metal off to save the digit—and he'd made them put it back on as soon as the swelling went down.

Soap finally asked him about it, maybe six months after you left. They were cleaning their rifles in the common room, the kind of quiet evening that made Ghost's thoughts wander to places he didn't want them going.

"You still wearin' that, LT?" Soap hadn't looked up from his SA80, but his voice was careful. Casual in that way that meant he knew exactly what he was asking.

Ghost had gone still for half a second. Then he'd shrugged, the motion stiff. "Habit."

Soap had nodded like that explained everything. He never asked again.

But it wasn't habit. Habit was checking your corners. Habit was clearing your weapon before cleaning. Habit was something you could break with enough time and discipline.

This was something else.

This was the way he'd catch himself looking at his left hand during debriefs, like the weight of the ring might anchor him somewhere that wasn't a war zone.

This was the way he'd think about calling you after every near-miss, every time he cheated death by inches, just to hear your voice one more time. This was the way he'd stop himself because what right did he have?

He was the one who never told you what he did. He was the one who let you walk away without a fight because he believed, down to his bones, that you deserved better than waiting for a funeral that might never come.

He never told you which force he was in. Never told you the real risks. Never told you that every time you kissed him goodbye at the door, he was already halfway to being a ghost.

And you—you couldn't take it anymore. The waiting. The praying. Playing the helpless spouse while he shipped out to god knows where, doing god knows what. Missions kept getting harder. Deadlier. More unpredictable. And one day you'd just looked at him across the kitchen table and said you couldn't do it anymore.

He hadn't fought you. Hadn't begged. Hadn't even asked you to reconsider.

Why would he make you wait for a dead man?

So now you're gone, and the ring stays. A stupid, stubborn piece of metal that should mean nothing but means everything. A promise he's got no right to keep making. A question he's never been able to answer, not even to himself: did he ever really love you, or was he just too hollow to let anyone in?

He knows the answer. He's always known. But knowing doesn't change anything.

---

The trucks keep rolling in.

Ghost stands at the edge of the training yard, watching the latest batch of recruits spill out onto the gravel. Fresh meat. Green as grass and twice as likely to get themselves killed. After the last mission took half their roster—fifteen good soldiers, gone in forty-eight hours—Command's been scraping the bottom of the barrel.

His section's getting six new bodies. He's got the list in his hand, paper crinkling in the morning wind. Names and service numbers. Transfer histories. Some from overseas rotations, some straight out of basic, some from other units looking for a second chance.

He scans through them, disinterested. Corporal Hendricks, specialist track record. Private Novak, young, eager, probably dead in six months. Sergeant Reyes, solid file, good marks on the range. Sergeant—

His thumb stops on a name halfway down the list.

His pulse doesn't spike. His breathing doesn't change. He's too well-trained for that. But something in his chest goes tight, like a wire pulled too thin, and for a moment he forgets to blink.

{user}. Right there in black ink. Assigned to his section.

He stares at it for longer than he should. Reads it three times, like maybe his eyes are playing tricks, like maybe the three years and the deployments and the sleepless nights have finally scrambled his brain.

They haven't. It's you.

He folds the paper, shoves it in his pocket, and tells himself it doesn't matter. You won't recognize him. You never saw him like this—mask on, kit strapped, voice dropped low and professional. The man you married was someone else entirely. Someone who laughed at your jokes and let you steal his hoodies and held you on the nights he was home. That man doesn't exist anymore. Maybe never did.

So he doesn't care. He tries not to care.

It works until it doesn't.

Training runs long. The new recruits are a mixed bag—some promising, some hopeless, all of them watching him like he might bite their heads off. He probably will if they keep flagging their muzzles like idiots.

He works through them one by one on the range. Correcting stances. Adjusting grips. Biting back the sharper comments when someone fumbles a reload. Standard stuff. Routine.

Then it's your turn.

You're at the far end of the line, M4 shouldered, posture decent but not great. He watches you send a round downrange. It hits target but pulls left. Recoil control's sloppy. You're anticipating the shot, flinching before the trigger breaks.

He moves in without thinking. Steps behind you, close enough that his chest nearly brushes your back. His hands come up—one on your shoulder, pressing down to steady your stance, the other reaching for your grip on the fore-end.

"Loosen your hold," he says, voice flat through the balaclava. "You're choking it. Rifle needs to breathe."

He adjusts your forward hand first, repositioning your fingers along the rail. Then he moves to your trigger hand, his palm sliding over your knuckles, aligning your grip against the pistol grip. Standard correction. He's done this a thousand times with a thousand recruits.

Then something catches the light.

His left hand is wrapped around yours, and there—glinting against the grey of the rifle—is the ring. Worn down at the edges. Scratched from years of abuse. The gold faded to something softer, something older, but unmistakably there.

He sees your head tilt slightly. Sees the flicker of confusion, the way your eyes track the movement of his hand.

For a second, he considers pulling away. Making some excuse. Shoving his hand back in his pocket and pretending this never happened.

He doesn't.

Instead, he tightens his grip slightly, just enough to correct your trigger finger placement. "Pad of your finger on the trigger," he says, quieter now. "Not the crease. You're pulling shots left because you're jerking it."

His voice is steady. Professional. He's good at this—wearing masks, literally and otherwise.

But the ring is still there. A dead giveaway. A piece of the life he had before, right out in the open for anyone to see. For you to see.

He watches your face for any sign of recognition. For the moment the pieces click together. For the question that's surely forming behind your eyes: why is this masked stranger wearing a wedding ring that looks like it's been through a war?

He releases your grip, stepping back. His hands fall to his sides, and he curls his left into a fist, hiding the ring from view.

"Focus, rookie," he grumbles, and there's something almost bitter underneath the words. Something he hopes you can't hear.