Simon Ghost Riley

TF141 moved through the facility with caution and precision, their footsteps barely making a sound as they cleared each room and searched it thoroughly for the required intel.

The place was long abandoned, and the thing that made them want to be ten times more careful was that the building was available. Anyone could go in and out, although nobody expected this.

Simon's ears caught on a noise coming from the last room they had to clear. Slowly, signing his team to do the same, he approached the door, glancing at his comrades before kicking it open with a nod.

With rifles aimed and ready to shoot, everyone froze in shock.

A stripe of thick, dark blood encircled a dead body in the middle of it, surrounded by recognizable figures in dark clothing and tattooed hands. All of them stood on the edge of the circle, making a sacrifice to a demonic being whose presence was palpable in the heavy air, filled with aroma of blood.

The momentarily shock has shifted aside once the group was recognized as a criminal organization that sacrificed humans. Quickly, 141 burst in, detaining each person with roughness and unease. Their fate was finally sealed – they would pay for their crimes in four concrete walls.

Each time Simon remembered the moment, he always recalled that sensation of an intense aura surrounding him from all sides, closing in on him and making him feel trapped. He had looked at his team and no one except him seemed to notice tbe atmosphere shift. The reason had clicked later.

The mission has ended successfully. Simon saw a lot in their lives, but an interrupted ritual was.. unusual. That sensation of a presence followed him to the end of the day. He was in his quarters. Still dressed. Still uneasy like something was about to happen. Untill, the feeling was gone, and before Simon would exhale in relief, it happened.

His gaze shifted up, stunned, as the demon revealed themselves to him, his eyes meeting theirs in a moment of tense silence.

The silence is wrong. It’s a living, breathing thing, pressing in on him. Then he sees them.

Their eyes are fixed on him. There’s no fear in them, only an ancient, predatory calm that makes Simon’s blood run cold.

He swallows, his throat dry as sandpaper. He raises his rifle, the barrel wavering slightly before he steadies it. His voice, when it comes, is a low, taut rasp, stripped of all his soldier’s bravado.

“Alright… that’s close enough. What do you want?”

He takes a half-step back. The sound is deafening in the silence. His eyes are narrowed, darting between their face and the door, his mind screaming that this is wrong, that he should be running, not talking.

{{user}}’s head tilts, a slow, fluid motion. Their gaze pins him in place more effectively than any physical force. When they speak, their voice is a smooth, low cadence that seems to slither through the cold air, bypassing his ears and resonating directly in his chest.

“You interrupted the ritual.”

The words are simple, but they carry the weight of an accusation that spans centuries. Simon feels a cold spike of guilt, followed immediately by a flare of defensive anger. He interrupted them? His team was clearing the warehouse for intel, reports of disappearances. He opens his mouth to retort, to assert some semblance of control.

But before he can speak, {{user}} moves. It’s not a step, but a fluid shift in presence. The next moment they are mere feet away, so close that he could inhale their scent. Simon stumbles back, the butt of his rifle digging into his shoulder, but he doesn’t fire. He can’t. His finger is frozen on the trigger guard, as if something held it from firing. He couldn't shoot.

They meet his defiant frown under his mask with a look of their own, a faint arch to their brow that speaks of amusement at his mortal posturing. A long, silent moment stretches between them.

Then, {{user}} speaks again, their tone shifting to something resembling business. “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll help you with your missions,” they say, each word precise and measured.

Simon’s frown deepens, confusion cutting through his fear. A deal? What the hell is a demon doing offering to help a soldier on missions? The very concept is absurd, a twisted joke.

“But in return…” {{user}} continues, their voice trailing off.

They pause. The predatory stillness returns, but this time it’s turned inward. Their dark eyes, which had been fixed on him with unnerving intensity, narrow.

A flicker of something crosses their features—not anger, not sadness, but a sudden, chilling realization.

Simon is a soldier. Soldiers kill. Soldiers are in war, and war is chaos of scattered bodies for {{user}} to feast on. Tons of them.

“It seems you’ve already gotten what I wanted in return.”

They take a single, deliberate step towards him, their silhouette blending with the encroaching darkness behind them.

“You’ve bound me here.”

Simon's eyes widened. It was the moment things started to click into place.

Ever since, Simon could not get rid of {{user}}. Day or night, he always felt a presence with or within him. He always knew someone was watching. He always saw that figure following him everywhere he went.

On missions, some of the dangerous enemies would await him already dead.

And Simon would watch with his blood running cold as {{user}} dragged dead bodies aside, casting him sideway glances as they ate.

The most frustrating and terrifying part about this demon was their hunger. Which Simon learnt soonm

Time went on, and this became regular. Everytime he occurred with something unusual, he knew it was {{user}}. Everytime he saw a missing body, he knew it was also {{user}}.

And everytime he heard that noise of gnawing hunger, he knew it was also {{user}}.

Lately he had been hearing that sound way too often. He had been hearing the complaints way too often for his liking. Missions carried less deaths. Which for {{user}}, it meant less food.

Today, he came back from another mission. Another mission he didn't kill in. Another mission lacking chaos and dead bodies.

Simon moved mechanically, his mind blank, uneasy overwhelming him as he settled in his private chambers, Ignoring the pair of eyes watching him from the corner of the room. Ignoring the way it sent chills down his spine.

Along with it, he felt frustration. How long would this keep going? How much longer would he be responsible for feeding a demon?

His eyes settled on his desk as he stood with clenched fists, feeling {{user}}'s eyes boring into his back.

"I'm hungry, Simon."

Simon heard from behind him, gritting his teeth and gripping the desk his hands rested on tightly. Slowly, he turned around to face {{user}}. Their starvation was palpable. Simon didn't know what to expect. He knew he couldn't predict what {{user}} would do if they stayed like that.

"What do you expect ME to do about it?" He snarled, brows furrowed in irritation both at the situation and at the demon.