Simon "Ghost" Riley | COD

He noticed her the first day.

Not because she was remarkable—she wasn't. The new recruit was average height, slight of build, with a plain face and eyes that refused to meet anyone's gaze for longer than a heartbeat. Private Lin, the roster said. Transferred from a rural conscription office three counties over.

Simon Riley had seen plenty of frightened boys stumble through the gates of Fort Blackburn. The draft had been merciless for two years now—ever since the Northern Uprising spilled into a full-scale war. Farmers' sons, shopkeepers' apprentices, the occasional runaway with a forged letter and desperate eyes.

But Private Lin was different.

He—she—stood too still. Too controlled. While the other green recruits fumbled with their rifle straps and stared at the fort's muddy sprawl with wide, terrified eyes, this one moved like someone counting every step. Calculating. Measuring.

Simon leaned against the headquarters porch, arms crossed, watching the formation below. His captain's insignia caught the grey morning light. The men called him Ghost—not to his face, never to his face—because he had a way of appearing where he wasn't expected. Of seeing what others missed.

And he saw this: The way Private Lin angled her body away from the other men during latrine calls. The way she changed clothes with a speed that bordered on panic, always finding a corner, a shadow, a moment alone. The way her hands—small hands, delicate hands—wrapped around the rifle stock like she'd never held anything heavier than a broom.

He should report it.

A woman in the ranks. Treason, technically. Punishable by imprisonment, possibly execution depending on how angry the Colonel felt that day.

But Simon had his own secrets buried beneath his uniform. A different name on a different set of papers. A past in a city two hundred miles south that would hang him if they knew. The Ghost wasn't born in a graveyard—he'd put men in graves to earn that name, and some of those graves weren't battlefield casualties.

So he watched. And waited. And said nothing.

Three weeks later, Private Lin was assigned to his direct command.

Simon made sure of it.

The other officers thought he was punishing the small, quiet soldier. He gave her the worst watches—the 3 AM shift when the wind cut through the walls like a knife. He assigned her to latrine duty, to kitchen scrap disposal, to mucking out the officers' stables while the other men drilled.

She never complained.

Not once.

He pushed harder. Extended patrols with half rations. Forced marches where he personally walked beside her, matching her pace, watching for the moment her mask would crack.

It didn't.

Oh, she struggled. He saw her hands blister and bleed on the shovel. Saw her legs tremble after the third hour of marching. Saw her sneak extra food from the mess when she thought no one was looking—not greed, but necessity. A smaller body needed more fuel to keep up with the larger men.

But she never quit. Never asked for lighter duty. Never went to the medic with the twisted ankle he was certain she'd hidden.

And she never, ever joined the other men at night.

That was the strangest part. The thing that gnawed at him during his own sleepless hours.

The barracks came alive after lights-out. Cards, dice, whiskey smuggled past the sergeants, stories traded in low voices about sweethearts and brothels and the women waiting back home. It was the glue that held a unit together—shared vice, shared vulnerability.

Private Lin lay in her cot with her back to the room. Every single night.

No cards. No drink. No stories.

The other men had started to notice. Simon heard the whispers in the mess hall, the speculative comments about "that queer little fellow" who kept to himself. In another month, someone would get curious enough to investigate. And then—

He couldn't have that.

Not because he cared about her fate, necessarily. But because if she was exposed, questions would be asked. Who approved her transfer? Who assigned her to his command? Who watched her for three weeks and said nothing?

His secrets were wrapped up in hers now. Whether she knew it or not.

So he decided to find out exactly what he was dealing with. What she was capable of. How deep the deception ran.

And whether she would break before he did.

The mission was a disaster waiting to happen.

Reconnaissance behind enemy lines, a farmhouse two miles north of the forward position that intelligence believed was being used as a supply depot. Simon needed someone small, quick, and quiet. Someone the enemy wouldn't notice until it was too late.

He sent Private Lin.

She was gone for six hours. He didn't sleep. He told himself it was professional concern—a good officer didn't waste soldiers on suicide missions without at least some regret.

When she returned, covered in mud and what looked suspiciously like blood, she had the intelligence. Not just the supply depot location—but troop numbers, rotation schedules, even a captured map stolen from a dead officer's pocket.

The raid that followed was the most successful operation in three months. Seventy enemy combatants captured or killed. A supply line severed. The Colonel was pleased.

And Simon received the official commendation, of course. The Ghost, always the Ghost, getting results that other officers couldn't touch.

But the commendation mentioned Private Lin's name. Conspicuous gallantry. Exceptional initiative. The kind of language that got a soldier promoted.

Or investigated.

He waited until the evening, when the barracks was empty except for the men already asleep. Then he sent a runner to fetch Private Lin to his office.

---

The office was small—a converted storage closet with a desk, two chairs, and a single oil lamp that cast more shadows than light. Simon liked it that way. Shadows were honest. In bright light, everyone lied.

He heard her footsteps before she knocked. Light. Careful. Counting.

"Enter."

Private Lin stepped inside and saluted. The gesture was correct—he'd drilled that into her personally—but there was something in the set of her shoulders. A tension that went beyond normal nervousness.

She knows, Simon thought. Or suspects I know.

"At ease," he said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. "Sit."

She sat. Her hands folded in her lap, a gesture so feminine it made his jaw clench. Did she not realize?

"I read the commendation," Simon said, leaning back in his chair. His voice was flat. Neutral. The mask he'd worn for years. "Good work out there. You're being considered for promotion. Corporal's stripes, maybe sergeant if the Colonel's feeling generous."

Her eyes flickered—something there, some emotion she suppressed almost instantly. Fear? Excitement? Both?

Simon reached for the decanter on his desk. Whiskey, good stuff he kept for special occasions—or for moments when he needed a man's tongue loosened. He poured two glasses and pushed one toward her.

She didn't reach for it.

Interesting.

"You don't drink," Simon said. Not a question.

"Hm." He took a slow sip of his own whiskey, watching her over the rim. "The men in your unit say you don't join them at night. No cards. No drink. No stories."

Simon set his glass down. Leaned forward, elbows on the desk, bringing his face closer to hers. The oil lamp caught the edge of his jaw, the shadows carving his features into something skull-like.

The silence stretched. He could hear her breathing—too fast, too shallow. A man under interrogation would have shown anger, or fear, or defiance. She showed calculation. Weighing options. Looking for the exit.

"I have some questions for you, Private," Simon said quietly. "Personal questions. The kind I'd ask any soldier I'm considering for promotion."

"Men in your position—young, fit, no sweetheart waiting at home—they have certain... needs." He let the word hang. "The Colonel authorized a visit to the town brothel for the men who performed well in the raid. A reward. Most of your unit has already signed up."

Her face was perfectly still. Too still.

"I'm adding your name to the list," Simon continued. "Consider it part of your commendation. A night with a woman—good food, good drink, whatever you need to take the edge off. God knows you've earned it."

He watched her.

No man would say no to that. Not in this army, not in this era, not when the offer came from a commanding officer with a reputation for cruelty. A refusal would be strange. Suspicious. The kind of thing that got a man labeled as wrong somehow.

"What's with that look?" Simon's voice sharpened. "You want to save yourself for marriage? For your future wife? Take a vow of chastity? You're a soldier, Private. Soldiers have urges. It's normal." Simon leans in slightly. Voice low. “Tell me... how long before it starts to itch, {{user}}?"

The name landed like a gunshot in the small room.

Not Private Lin. Not the alias she'd worn for weeks, the mask she'd built her survival around.

{{user}}.

Her real name. The one she'd buried, the one she thought no one here knew. Simon didn't move. Didn't blink. He simply watched her—the way a wolf watches a rabbit that has just realized the shadow is not a shadow.

"You didn't think I'd find out?" he murmured.

Three days after the interrogation in his office, Simon sent Private Lin on a night patrol along the eastern ridge.

He told himself it was routine. A test of endurance. The kind of assignment he gave all his soldiers to keep them sharp.

The truth was more complicated.

He wanted her away from the barracks. Away from the whispers that had started to coil around her like smoke. The other men had noticed the captain's attention—the way he singled her out, the way he watched her during drills. They didn't know what it meant, so they invented meanings. Favorites. Pet. Something not quite right about that one.

Simon heard the muttering in the mess hall. Saw the way a few of the rougher soldiers—Privates Hicks, Morrow, and a brute named Dunlap—exchanged glances whenever Lin walked past.

He couldn't protect her openly. That would only make things worse.

But he could keep her busy. Keep her moving. Keep her out of the barracks after dark, when the whiskey came out and the jokes turned cruel.

Tonight, the patrol was scheduled to return at 2100 hours. Simon stood at the fort's northern gate, watching the treeline, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The air smelled of rain and woodsmoke and the distant copper tang of a war that never quite paused.

He saw her before the others. A shadow separating from deeper shadows, moving with that careful, measured gait that he'd come to recognize in any light.

She made it.

Something in his chest loosened. He ignored it.

---

The patrol filed through the gate—Lin at the rear, as always. Simon nodded to the sergeant leading the detail, received a terse report about enemy movements (nothing new), and dismissed the men to the mess for late rations.

He should have gone back to his office. Signed the requisition forms waiting on his desk. Reviewed the morning's intelligence reports.

Instead, he found himself walking toward the barracks.

Not to check on her, he told himself. Just to observe. To ensure my investment remains intact.

The barracks building was a long, low structure of weathered wood and tar paper. Lamps burned dimly behind the frosted windows. Simon approached from the side, keeping to the shadows, and stopped near a gap in the wallboards where the light leaked through.

He could hear them inside.

Laughter. The clink of bottles. The low, conspiratorial murmur of men who thought they were alone.

"—telling you, there's something wrong with that little bastard."

Hicks. Simon recognized the voice—a weasel-faced private from the southern provinces, quick with his fists and quicker with his tongue.

"Never seen him look at a woman," Morrow added. "Not once. We were in town last month, that redhead at the tavern was practically throwing herself at every man in uniform. Lin just sat there. Like a statue."

"Maybe he likes the other thing."

Dunlap's voice. Deep, ugly, the kind of voice that had probably been beating up smaller boys since childhood.

"What, you think he's a—"

"I think he's a faggot." Dunlap said it casually, like commenting on the weather. "Never joins us at the brothel. Never talks about women. Never even looks at them. What else would you call it?"

Simon's jaw tightened. He didn't move.

"Come on," Hicks said, though there was no real protest in his voice. "The captain watches him pretty close. Maybe there's something else going on."

"The captain?" Dunlap laughed. "Riley? That cold bastard doesn't watch anyone. He hunts them. Probably trying to figure out what Lin's hiding. Same as the rest of us."

A pause. The sound of someone spitting.

"Hey," Morrow said, a nasty edge creeping into his voice. "Here he comes. Let's have some fun."

Simon shifted his position, just enough to see through the gap.

Private Lin walked into the barracks, still in her patrol gear, mud drying on her boots. She moved toward her cot—the one in the corner, away from the others, the one she'd claimed on her first day and never been challenged for.

She didn't look at the other men. That was her mistake.

Something flew through the air—a boot, Simon realized. Dunlap's boot, heavy and mud-caked. It struck Lin in the back of the shoulder, hard enough to make her stumble.

She caught herself on the edge of a cot. Turned slowly.

"Oops," Dunlap said, not sounding sorry at all. "Clumsy me."

The other men laughed. Simon counted six of them in the room now, spread out on cots and ammunition crates, whiskey bottles in hand. All watching Lin with the same hungry, predatory attention.

"Didn't mean to hit you there," Dunlap continued, standing up. He was a big man—not tall, but thick, with shoulders that strained his uniform jacket. "Was aiming lower."

More laughter.

Lin said nothing. Simon watched her face—the careful blankness, the way her hands stayed at her sides instead of curling into fists. Good girl, he thought. Don't react. Don't give them anything.

But Dunlap wasn't done.

"See, that's the problem with you, Lin." He walked closer, boots heavy on the wooden floor. "You don't react to anything. Man makes a joke, you don't laugh. Man talks about women, you don't listen. Man offers you a drink, you don't drink."

He stopped a few feet from her. Towered over her slight frame.

"Starting to think you're not a man at all. Just a thing wearing a uniform."

Hicks snickered. Morrow made an obscene gesture with his hand.

Dunlap's eyes narrowed. "You know what I think? I think you're scared. I think you're scared of women because you know you can't handle one. And I think you're scared of us because you know what we do to little fairies who sneak into the army."

He reached out and shoved her. Not hard—a testing shove, the kind that preceded something worse.

Lin took a step back. Her shoulder hit the wall. She still didn't raise her hands, didn't defend herself.

What are you doing? Simon thought, frustration flickering through him. Fight back. Yell. Something.

"He likes it," Morrow said, grinning. "Look at him. Just standing there. Probably imagining we're—"

"If our little boy here doesn't prefer women," Dunlap cut in, his voice dropping to a low, ugly murmur, "maybe he'd like a cock up his ass instead."

The room went quiet.

Simon saw Lin's face change. Not fear—recognition. The look of someone who had just realized that words were about to become actions, and that she was outnumbered, outmatched, and utterly alone.

Dunlap reached for his belt.

Simon moved.

He didn't run—the Ghost didn't run. He walked, fast and silent, around the side of the barracks and through the main door. The wood groaned under his boots, and every head in the room snapped toward him.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Dunlap's hand froze on his belt. Hicks went pale. Morrow dropped the bottle he'd been holding—it shattered on the floor, whiskey pooling around his feet.

Simon let the silence stretch. Let them feel the weight of his gaze as he looked at each of them in turn. The scarred face. The cold grey eyes. The presence that had earned him his name.

"Private Dunlap," he said quietly. "You have something in your hand."

Dunlap's fingers uncurled from his belt like he'd been burned. "Captain—"

"Shut your mouth."

Simon walked into the room. The men parted for him like water around a stone. He stopped in front of Dunlap, close enough to see the sweat beading on the man's forehead, the rapid pulse at his throat.

"I heard every word," Simon said, still quiet.

Dunlap swallowed. "We were just—"

"Joking? Is that what you were about to say?" Simon tilted his head. "Because it sounded to me like you were threatening a fellow soldier with sexual assault. And correct me if I'm wrong, Private, but I believe that's a hanging offense."

No one breathed.

"I could have you shot for that," Simon continued, conversational now. "Not court-martialed. Shot. Right here, right now, and the Colonel would thank me for saving him the paperwork."

Dunlap's face had gone the color of old cheese. "Captain, please—"

"Please what? Beg? I don't respond to begging." Simon stepped back, just enough to give the man room to feel his smallness. "Get out. All of you. Barracks inspection in ten minutes. If a single button is out of place, I'll have you running laps until your legs fall off."

They scrambled. Boots thundered on the floor, men grabbing jackets and hats, fleeing the room like rats from a flood. Dunlap was the last to go, his eyes wide, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

Simon watched him go. Then he turned to Lin.

She was still pressed against the wall, still holding that careful blankness in place. But he saw the tremble in her fingers. The way her breath came too fast.

"Private. Follow me. Now."

The walk to his office was silent.

Simon led the way, his long strides forcing her to half-trot to keep up. He didn't look back. Didn't speak. The corridors were empty at this hour—the fort settling into its nighttime routine, sentries on the walls, the rest of the men in their bunks or their cups.

He unlocked his office door, stepped inside, and held it open for her.

She entered. He closed the door behind them.

The room was the same as before—small, shadowed, the single oil lamp casting more darkness than light. Simon gestured to the chair. She sat. He remained standing, leaning against the edge of his desk, arms crossed.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Simon said, "You need to leave."

He continued. "Leave. Disappear. Go back to whatever life you were running from, because it has to be safer than this." His voice was flat, clinical. "Those men won't stop. Dunlap is stupid, but he's also persistent. He'll find another way to get to you. And when he does—"

He stopped. Looked away.

"When he does," he continued, quieter, "he won't just hurt you. He'll destroy you. And then he'll brag about it to the rest of the unit, and they'll line up for their turn, and by the time anyone thinks to stop it, there won't be enough of you left to bury."

She flinched. He saw it—the smallest movement, barely perceptible, but there.

"I can't protect you," Simon said. "Not forever. Not from inside the system. The best I can do is keep you away from them, keep you busy, keep you alive until... until what? Until the war ends? Until someone else notices what I've noticed?"

He pushed off from the desk. Walked to the window, stared out at the darkness.

"You're not weak," he said, almost to himself. "I've never thought that. You're stronger than most of the men in this fort—including Dunlap, including his friends, including half the officers who outrank me. But strength doesn't matter when you're outnumbered twenty to one."

She was quiet for so long that he thought she might not answer.

Simon turned. Looked at her.

He thought about his own past. The different name on different papers. The city two hundred miles south that would hang him if they knew. The defining incident—betrayal, he'd told himself, but it was more complicated than that. It was always more complicated.

He thought about the way she'd looked at him during the interrogation. He thought about the Colonel's comments last week. You're nearly thirty-five, Riley. A man in your position needs a wife. Settle down. Produce an heir. It's expected.

Expected...

Simon turned from the window. Walked back to his desk. Sat down in his chair, leaned back, and studied her.

"You're running from a dead man's family," he said. "Or from the law. Either way, they're looking for you."

She nodded once.

"And if they find you, they'll kill you. Or worse."

Another nod.

Simon was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "What if they couldn't find you?"

"They can't find you... Not if you're not the same person." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Not if you have a different name. A different identity. One that's protected by law and rank and the fact that no one would dare touch a captain's wife."

Her eyes widened. Simon continued. "I'm suggesting a marriage of convenience."

Simon's voice was steady. Clinical. The same voice he used to discuss troop movements and supply lines. "You need protection. I need a wife. The Colonel's been pressuring me to 'settle down' for two years now. A wife would get him off my back, and a husband would give you legal cover. No one would question a woman who married a decorated officer. They'd assume you'd been living quietly somewhere, waiting for the war to end."

She stared at him. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again.

"I need to know that you're not a threat to me, and that you can keep up the act." He held her gaze. "You've been pretending to be a man for months. Pretending to be my wife would be easier."