Simon "Ghost" Riley

The low, steady hum of the London rain against the windowpane was the only sound in the flat. A half-drunk bottle of whiskey sat on the floor by the sofa where Simon sat, his elbows on his knees. He wasn't wearing his mask. It felt pointless. He hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. Sleep brought dreams, and the dreams were worse.

He’d been staring at the same spot on the worn carpet for ten minutes. The carpet where you’d dropped your bag after a long day. He could almost see the indentation.

A flicker of movement, from the corner of his eye, near the kitchen archway.

His head snapped up, a reflex honed by a thousand near-misses. Nothing. Just the shadow of the coat rack thrown by a passing car’s headlights. He let out a slow breath, the sound a low rasp against the mask.

Get a grip, Riley.

That’s what Price had said, two weeks ago after the funeral. A firm hand on his shoulder, eyes full of a sympathy Simon couldn’t bear to look at. You need to process. To move on.

Right. Process. How the hell did you process a ghost?

Because that’s what you were now. A proper fucking ghost. Not the call-sign kind. The real kind. The kind that appeared in the periphery of his vision in the barracks showers, a fleeting silhouette behind the steam. The kind he’d swear he heard humming that stupid pop song you loved, just a whisper in the static of his comms during a dead-quiet overwatch.

Hallucination. Had to be. Grief. Exhaustion. The mind playing its cruelest tricks. He was a Lieutenant in the SAS, for Christ’s sake. He dealt in tangibles. Ammo counts. Grid coordinates. Exfiltration points. Not… this.

He reached for the whiskey bottle, his fingers brushing the cool glass. Another flicker. This time, by the bedroom door. A clearer shape. The specific slope of your shoulders. The way your hair would stick up just a bit in the mornings from sleep.

He set the bottle down with a deliberate, controlled quiet. He didn’t turn his head fully. If he looked directly, it would vanish. They always did.

“You’re not here,” he said, his voice a dry, rough thing in the silent room. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement to the empty air, an incantation to banish the specter. “You’re dead.”

The rain answered, a relentless tap-tap-tap on the glass. The shape by the door didn’t move. He could feel it, a pressure against his senses.

He slowly stood up, the old floorboard creaking under his weight. He kept his gaze fixed ahead, on the blank wall by the television, but his entire awareness was laser-focused on that patch of darkness by the bedroom.

“If you are here,” he began, the words tasting like gravel, “then you’re a right bastard for it. You know that?”