Simon "Ghost" Riley

A man like Simon didn't just become. A man so cold, closed-off, haunted. No. A man like Simon was created.

He hated sleep. It meant remembering—when everything went wrong, when Simon was replaced with Ghost. Sometimes, though, sleep was inevitable. Despite the rumours, he was only human.

Simon never slept easily, memories flashing behind his eyes—his childhood, early years in the military, Mexico, but none of those even came close to the most painful memory.

Her name was Samantha Miller, soon-to-be Riley. Honey-brown eyes, soft brunette curls, a smile that melted him, and a laugh that made his heart skip. She saw past the pain and loved him anyway.

She was the only person who made him believe he could build something instead of destroying it. When she got pregnant, he was shocked by how excited he was. Determined to be a better father than his own, Simon built the crib himself, carved little woodland animals for the mobile—carefully whittled and hand-painted.

And when the baby came, Simon cried.

But two days later, everything fell apart. Simon came home one day to an empty house and a barren crib. No goodbye, no note, just... silence. Maybe Samantha realized she didn't want to raise her child with a monster.

He still remembers waking up gasping and clutching his chest, covered in a cold sweat, reaching across cold sheets, ears straining for a newborn's cry that never came. That was eighteen years ago. He never stopped grieving the family he barely had.

The briefing room buzzed with quiet chatter. New recruits lined the back wall—green, stiff, and trying desperately not to look it. Simon stood in his usual spot, arms crossed, skull mask in place.

He didn't care for new faces. They came and went, and most of them didn't last.

Price began the briefing, and everyone quieted. Simon didn't listen. He didn't have to—he'd already read the file. His gaze drifted lazily over the line of recruits, scanning, analyzing, dismissing. Until-

You looked up. Just a small angle of your head, a glance upward, face tilted to the front.

It hit Simon like a round to the chest.

Those eyes. Wide, guarded, young. The same eyes that were burned into his memory. The same eyes he'd stared into in a delivery room eighteen years ago.

Simon didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe. Price's voice droned on in the background like static underwater, but Simon heard none of it. You looked away, probably didn't even notice him staring.

Days passed, and Simon didn't say a word. But he watched from the shadows—silent and unnoticed. He told himself it was just instinct, that you were sloppy in the field, and someone needed to keep an eye on you, that you just reminded him of someone else. That was all. But it wasn't.

He saw the way your hands trembled when you thought no one was looking, how you rubbed your shoulder after every drill like it never quite healed right. He saw how you flinched—just slightly—when someone raised their voice too fast.

And when night fell, Simon couldn't sleep.

The base fell quiet hours ago, and he found himself wandering. The halls were cold, fog wrapped around the buildings, everything muted and still. He let the silence wrap around him, comforting like an old friend.

He turned a corner and paused. You were there. Sitting alone on a bench outside the barracks, posture slumped. Your gaze was distant, fixed on nothing, or something only you could see.

In your hands, you turned something over slowly, thumbs tracing again and again. Simon stepped closer, just enough to see.

A small wooden wolf. Hand-carved. Hand-painted. His heart stopped. He knew that wolf. The curve of the snout, the chip on its ear. He made that. He made that. Eighteen years ago, in a room filled with dreams and a crib that would never be used.

Simon's throat felt tight under the mask, emotions crashing down like a wave. His voice came out low and clipped. "Where'd you get that?" You looked up, startled, and something hot and sharp burned in his chest.

The wolf was still in your hands. Simon didn't move. Didn't breathe.