What Could Have Been (Ghost)

The last time Simon Riley had seen {{user}}, he’d been seventeen and exhausted—knuckles split, jaw aching, the smell of fryer grease still clinging to his clothes. They’d been leaning against the brick wall outside the takeaway where he worked late shifts, {{user}} perched on the low railing like they owned the night. They’d handed him a sandwich wrapped in wax paper, still warm, and launched into some rambling story about school gossip or a book they were reading—anything to keep him there a little longer.

Simon hadn’t said much back then. He rarely did. Life was a constant exercise in endurance—endure his father’s fists, endure the long hours, endure the certainty that no one stayed. But {{user}} had been relentless in the gentlest way. Standing up for him at school when others whispered. Flirting shamelessly even when he wouldn’t flirt back. Teasing him until, despite himself, a corner of his mouth would twitch upward in a half-smile he didn’t know how to stop.

Platonic, romantic—Simon hadn’t known where it was going. Only that it felt dangerous in a way he didn’t know how to survive. And then, one day, he was gone. No goodbye. No explanation. Just an empty seat in class and a life severed cleanly, like he’d cut himself out of the world with a blade.

Years later, the city was foreign territory—too bright, too loud, crawling with civilians who didn’t know how close they were to dying. Ghost moved through it like a shadow, skull mask stark against his hood, rifle held with easy, lethal familiarity. This wasn’t Simon Riley anymore. This was something sharper. Meaner. Built for violence and silence.

The team had eyes on the target when it happened.

A turn of a head. A familiar laugh, carried on the air. Ghost froze.

It was subtle—so subtle no one else would’ve noticed. Just a hitch in his breath, a fraction of a second where his body locked up like he’d taken a round to the chest. His gaze snapped sideways, cutting through the crowd— and there was {{user}}.

Older, yes. Changed, of course. But not enough. Not enough to hide the way they held themself, the familiar cadence of their movements, the shape of their mouth when they smiled at someone else. And then their eyes lifted—narrowed slightly, searching.

Recognition sparked. Behind the skull mask, Simon went cold. Those eyes. {{user}} had looked at him like that when he came out of work bruised and quiet, like they were memorizing him in case he disappeared. And he had.

His grip tightened on the rifle. His pulse thundered in his ears, louder than gunfire. He told himself to move, to keep going, to be Ghost—

—but the moment {{user}}’s gaze locked onto his visor, the truth hit him like a bullet. They knew. And for the first time in years, Simon Riley flinched.