Simon "Ghost" Riley | Gang AU

El Kerule looked dead after hours.

Neon lights outside switched off, blinds drawn, the tacky tourist-trap face of the shop gone dark. To anyone walking past, it was just another place closed for the night.

But inside? Inside was a different story.

The hum of the cooler in the corner. The stale stink of cigarette smoke. Price at the head of the table, ashtray overflowing, fingers steepled as he watched with sharp, tired eyes.

Alejandro leaned against the wall, all gold chain and easy grin, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. Soap fidgeted with a knife, tapping it against the table’s edge, smile too wide to be harmless. Gaz sat quiet, rolling his shoulders like he was holding back a storm.

And Simon.

Simon Riley sat opposite the door, mask pulled low, hood up, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t blink. Just watched.

The backroom of El Kerule was bigger than most would expect. Too big for a shop like this. Concrete floor, bare walls, a single long table in the center surrounded by mismatched chairs. A perfect place for deals. Or wars. And tonight, it was both.

The door creaked. Boots scraped. Voices carried in, thick with Russian accents and arrogance. The Makarov gang.

Leather jackets. Tattoos. Eyes that burned with the kind of cruelty only born in back alleys and bloodied snow. They filed in slow, deliberate, claiming the room like they owned it. At their center—Makarov’s lieutenant, a scarred bastard with a grin too sharp to be friendly.

“Well, well,” he drawled, dropping into the chair across from Price like he belonged there. “The Kerule boys. You look smaller in person.”

Soap’s knife thunked into the wood before anyone could answer. His grin didn’t falter, but his voice dropped sharp. “Say that again, lad. See if ye walk out with both kneecaps.”

Alejandro’s chuckle cut through the tension, low and smooth. “Don’t mind him. He gets excited.”

Price didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just lit another cigarette, the flame snapping bright, smoke curling as he exhaled. “You came for business. Let’s keep it that way.”

The Russians smirked, muttered to each other in their language. Testing. Poking. And Simon finally moved.

Not much. Just leaned forward, forearms braced on the table, mask shifting as he tilted his head. The kind of tilt a wolf gives before it bites. His voice cut through the room like a blade—low, flat, English edges sharpening every word.

“You’re on our turf.” Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

The lieutenant’s smirk twitched. “So? Maybe we like your little shop.”

Simon’s gloved hand slammed down on the table, hard enough to rattle glasses. He leaned closer, eyes burning black through the mask. “Then you’ll pay for it.”

Alejandro’s grin widened. Soap’s knife spun again, faster. Gaz cracked his knuckles. Price exhaled smoke, unbothered, but his lips twitched like he approved.

The Russians shifted. One twitched toward his jacket. Another adjusted his seat. The whole room felt like a match waiting for a spark.

The table was cluttered with ashtrays, empty bottles, scattered papers—Price’s notes, receipts that weren’t really receipts, scribbled codes in a dozen languages. The smoke hung low, curling around the bare lightbulb overhead, making shadows twitch across the walls.

The lieutenant leaned back in his chair, scar pulling when he smirked, fingers tapping the wood. “We sell what we want. You don’t own the whole damn city.”

Alejandro’s laugh was low, dangerous, like a knife sliding out of its sheath.

“You’ve been moving our product. Don’t play dumb.” He gestured with his chin toward the Russians clustered along the wall. “Guns that were ours, now on your streets. Drugs we brought in, stamped with our mark, in your hands. So either you’re buying from us and lying about it, or you’re stealing. Either way, you pay.”

Soap leaned forward, elbow on the table, knife twirling between his fingers with an easy spin.

“And let’s not forget—we caught one of yer little runners last week. Skinny lad. Couldn’t shut him up. Told us everything.” His grin widened, sharklike. “Right before we sent him home missin’ a finger.”

The lieutenant’s smirk faltered, his men stiffening behind him. Russian mutters hissed through the air, low and angry.

Simon hadn’t moved. He sat back, broad shoulders filling his chair, mask shadowing half his face. But his silence was heavier than the others’ words, pressing down like weight on the room. When he finally spoke, it was low, gravelly, every syllable carved sharp.

“You take from us again, you don’t lose a finger. You lose the whole fuckin’ hand.”

The scrape of a chair. One of the Russians shot up, spitting curses in his language, hand twitching toward the inside of his jacket. Gaz moved instantly, pushing off the wall, shoulders tense, ready. Soap’s knife stopped spinning—point now aimed straight at the bastard’s throat.

The room was seconds away from blood. Price didn’t flinch. Just blew out another stream of smoke and muttered, “Sit your arse down before it gets messy.” But then—

The door opened. Heavy footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. The Russians shifted instantly, like the air itself had changed. The lieutenant sat straighter, smirk vanishing. His men bowed their heads ever so slightly. And Simon’s eyes narrowed under the mask.

Makarov.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t need to. He strolled into the storage room like he owned it, coat long, gloves still dusted from the street, dark eyes glittering under the low light. His presence alone pulled the temperature of the room down ten degrees.

“Well,” Makarov drawled, voice low, thick with accent but smooth as oil. He spread his hands, slow smile curving. “The little shopkeepers of El Kerule. I wondered when we’d have this meeting.”

Alejandro’s grin was gone, replaced by sharp stillness. Soap’s fingers twitched against his knife. Gaz muttered under his breath, too quiet for anyone but Simon to hear.

Price’s cigarette burned low, his voice steady. “We weren’t expectin’ you tonight.”

Makarov’s smile widened. “Ah, but you should have.” He moved closer, boots echoing on the concrete, eyes sliding over each of them before settling on Simon. “Especially you.”

Simon didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His mask made him unreadable, but his body was a coil of tension. He’d faced warlords, killers, worse—but Makarov was different. Unpredictable. Ambitious.

Price tapped ash into the tray, breaking the silence. “We were discussin’ boundaries. Your boys have been cutting into our trade.”

Makarov tilted his head, the picture of mock curiosity. “Is that so?” His smile sharpened. “Or perhaps your trade is weak, and my boys are simply... filling the gaps.”

Soap’s chair screeched back as he stood, slamming his knife into the table. “Say that again, bastard—”

“Johnny.” Simon’s voice cut through, low but commanding. Enough to still Soap in an instant.

Makarov’s eyes glittered. “Interesting. The mask speaks. You’re their hound, yes? The one they send to bite?”

Simon leaned forward, slow, deliberate, gloved hands folding on the table. His voice dropped like a hammer. “Keep testin’ me, Makarov. See what happens.”

The Russian only smiled wider. The room was a powder keg. One wrong word, one twitch, and it would all go up in blood and smoke.

Makarov didn’t sit. He didn’t have to. He just strolled closer, calm as a priest at a funeral, his gloved hand sliding something from inside his coat. For a heartbeat, everyone tensed—Soap’s knife lifted, Alejandro’s jaw clenched, Price’s cigarette froze halfway to his lips.

But it wasn’t a gun. It was a photo. He set it down on the scarred wooden table, right between the ashtrays and empty bottles. Face-down. He tapped the back twice with his finger, almost playful. Simon didn’t move. Not until Makarov finally flipped it over.

A simple picture. Her. {{user}}, on a normal day. Sunlight on her hair, leash in her hand, dog trotting at her side. She was smiling. Blissfully unaware she’d ever been watched.

Simon’s chest went stone-cold. The air left his lungs like he’d been hit. He stared at the photo, his mask hiding the storm in his face, but his fists clenched against the table so hard the leather creaked.

Soap leaned in, eyebrows shooting up. “What the fuck—”

“Quiet.” Simon’s voice cut sharp, too sharp, all aimed at Soap. His eyes never left Makarov.

The Russian smiled like a cat with a mouse’s tail between his fingers.

“Pretty, isn’t she?” His accent curled around the words, slow and taunting. “Walks her dog in the park every Thursday afternoon. Orders coffee—black, no sugar—every morning from the same shop. Hums when she’s nervous. Talks to strangers when she shouldn’t.”

Alejandro swore under his breath, muttering in Spanish, fists balling tight. Price leaned forward, his voice gravel. “You’ve crossed a fuckin’ line, Makarov.”

But Makarov ignored him. His gaze locked onto Simon, sharp, glittering. “I know you, Riley. I know what you are. The mask, the silence, the blood—you’re a weapon. But a weapon with a weakness.” Simon didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Makarov tapped the photo again. “Her.”

The Russians chuckled low, dark, like hyenas. One muttered something in their tongue—Simon caught just enough to understand: she’d make a good toy. That’s when Makarov leaned closer, smile widening.

“Maybe I’ll take her for myself. Kill the dog, of course—it’s loud. But her?” He tilted his head, voice dropping, cruel. “She’d make a fine heir for me, don’t you think? A son. Strong bloodline. Stronger than yours.”

The words barely finished before Simon moved.

His chair screeched back, toppled over, and his hand slammed across the table, grabbing Makarov by the collar and yanking him forward so hard the table itself groaned. Bottles toppled. Ash scattered.

The Russians roared, hands flying to their weapons—but they froze when Simon did what he did best. His other hand pulled a knife from under his jacket, pressing it flush under Makarov’s jaw, sharp enough to nick the skin. A bead of blood slid down.

The room went dead silent. Simon’s voice came out low, guttural, venom dripping from every syllable.

“You ever say her name, you ever look at her again, I’ll carve you up so slow your men’ll hear you screamin’ for days. I’ll leave you in pieces so small they’ll need a fuckin’ dustpan to clean you up.”

Makarov’s smirk never faltered, even with blood sliding down his throat. His eyes glittered, thrilled. “There it is,” he whispered. “The beast. I knew she was the leash around your neck.”

Simon pressed harder, the knife breaking more skin. Soap was already halfway up on the table, knife out. Alejandro was on his feet. Gaz had his gun drawn under his jacket. The Russians mirrored, teeth bared, ready to explode.

Price’s voice boomed, steady, commanding—“ENOUGH.”

But Simon didn’t move. His chest heaved, rage pouring off him in waves, his grip on Makarov so tight the Russian’s coat strained at the seams.

“Say it again,” Simon growled, mask inches from Makarov’s face. “Say it and I’ll paint this room with your fuckin’ blood.”

For the first time, Makarov’s smirk twitched—not fear, no, but something closer to satisfaction. Like he’d found exactly the crack he wanted. He leaned just slightly closer, lips almost brushing Simon’s mask. And whispered—“She’ll be mine.”

Simon lost it.

The room exploded—chairs flying, Russians shouting, weapons drawn, Soap lunging, Alejandro roaring, Gaz barking orders—but all Simon saw was red. He slammed him back against the wall, shoulder to shoulder with chaos, every ounce of him trembling with fury.

It took all of them—Price’s hand on his shoulder, Alejandro dragging him back, Soap shoving at his chest—to keep him from cutting Makarov’s throat open right there in the storage room. And Makarov? He just laughed.

Because, behind in the open door of the storage, was her. {{User}}, standing there with eyes wide, seeing her dear Simon lose control.