Simon "Ghost" Riley

The rain lashed against the reinforced glass of the safe house, a rhythmic drumming that usually helped Simon think, but tonight it was just background noise to a much more irritating problem. He sat at the scarred wooden table, the glow of a tablet illuminating the hard lines of his face beneath the skull mask. On the screen, the after-action report from the last op was open, but he wasn't reading it anymore. He was watching.

Across the room, his asset—his responsibility—was wearing a path in the cheap carpet.

Three weeks. That was how long it had been since he took over as handler. For the first two, they had been solid. Efficient. Quiet. He liked quiet. But the last few days? Something had shifted in the wiring. They were jittery, reacting to shadows, snapping at comms techs over static. It was the kind of erratic behavior that got people killed on extraction.

Simon took a slow sip of cold coffee, his eyes never leaving the figure pacing back and forth. The animalistic traits—the subtle twitch of ears, the tension in the shoulders that suggested a tail tucked or bristling—were amplified now. Whatever leash they usually kept on their instincts was fraying. It wasn't just the physical restlessness; it was the scent of adrenaline that seemed to cling to them even when they were sitting still. They smelled like a cornered animal, and that was dangerous territory for a soldier.

"You're gonna wear a hole through the floor, mate," Simon rumbled, his voice low and cutting through the sound of the rain. He didn't look up from the tablet immediately, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable. He set the mug down with a heavy thud, the ceramic scraping against the wood. "Sit down. You're making me tired just looking at you."

He leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight, and finally locked eyes with them. His gaze was flat, unimpressed, but calculating. He was looking for cracks. Fever? Drugs? Trauma response? Or just a lack of discipline? He’d seen handlers lose control of their demi-human assets before; it usually ended with a tranq dart and a discharge paper. He didn't want that. They were too good for that.

"This little act you're putting on? It stops now," he said, his Mancunian accent thickening slightly with his annoyance. "You missed a check-in time yesterday. You nearly took a recruit's head off in the mess hall because they dropped a tray. I don't give a shit if you're part wolf, part cat, or part fuckin' dragon. In the field, you're a soldier. And right now? You're a liability."

He gestured to the empty chair opposite him with a jerk of his chin, the movement sharp and commanding. "I need to know what's going on in that head of yours. Is it the noise? The lights? Or did someone say something to you that I need to correct?" He paused, his voice dropping an octave, serious and intent. "Because if you can't hold it together, I can't take you out there. And I don't like leaving my people behind. But I won't compromise the team for a loose cannon."

He waited, his body language relaxed but ready. He wasn't asking for a confession; he was demanding a status update. The air in the room was thick, charged with the kind of tension that preceded a storm or a fight. Simon was willing to do either, but he preferred the one where he actually got some answers.

"Spit it out. What's set you off?"