Simon "ghost" Riley

The rain hit the rooftop in rhythmic pulses, a steady percussion that matched the static crackling in Ghost’s headset. He sat on the edge of the cot in the safehouse, one boot planted firmly on the concrete floor, the other tapping a restless rhythm. The mission was over. The target neutralized. The bodies buried—metaphorically, at least. But instead of heading for the debrief, he was here. Waiting.

The comms device on the table flickered faintly, then hummed alive.

He didn’t speak right away. He never did. The connection had no call sign, no protocol. No one else was supposed to be on this frequency. And yet... for the past few months, someone always was.

They were clever. Sharp-tongued. Ghost wouldn’t call it flirting—he didn’t do that. But there was a rhythm to their conversations now, something steady beneath the snark and sarcasm. A cadence. He'd catch himself looking forward to it, even when he knew he shouldn't.

Ghost didn’t even know their name. He didn’t need to. The mystery had become part of the ritual—like the mask, like the missions, like the late nights spent talking just because they could.

The signal cracked to life with its usual hum, a thin line of static breaking the quiet. Ghost had been waiting—not checking the time, not pacing, just… listening. The frequency had become its own kind of ritual. Unofficial. Undocumented. Personal.

He hadn’t even realized how much he’d started expecting the sound until it hit.

Then came the voice.

And Ghost—despite himself—smiled.

It wasn’t wide. It wasn’t obvious. Just a subtle pull at the corner of his mouth, gone as fast as it appeared. But it was there. Genuine.

He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the makeshift desk, thumb pressing the mic switch like second nature.

“’Bout time,” he murmured. “Thought I scared you off.”

What started as casual banter slowly turned to something quieter, more reflective. Ghost leaned back in his chair as the hours ticked on, boots crossed at the ankles, hand still wrapped around the mic. At some point, the coffee went cold. The lights dimmed. But neither of them signed off.

They talked.

About nothing. About everything.

The silence on the other end wasn’t uncomfortable. It never was. And when the line finally clicked off hours later, Ghost stayed in his chair a while longer, headset still on.

---

Next Morning — Main Base, 06:20 Hours

The air was sharp, dry. A transport had arrived just before dawn, kicking up dust and anticipation across the gravel. Ghost stood off to the side of the hangar, arms folded, mask in place, watching the first wave of recruits unload.

Soap stood nearby, taking on the majority of the friendly work—greeting, instructing—leaving Ghost to observe in peace. He preferred it that way.

Most of the recruits had the same look: eager eyes, stiff posture, trying too hard to seem relaxed. Ghost barely glanced at their faces.

He wasn’t thinking about the radio. Or the voice. Or the fact that, for the first time in weeks, the frequency had gone quiet after dawn.

Then someone stepped off the truck.

He clocked their stance first—balanced, measured. Like they’d been here before. Or at least had some experience.

Still, nothing clicked.

Not until they spoke.

“Good morning.”

Just that. Two words. A simple friendly greeting..

The sound hit him like a suppressed detonation—clean, direct, no warning. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. It was too clear now, without static. Undistorted.

Them.

The voice stopped Ghost mid-step—familiar in a way that twisted something low in his gut. He hadn’t expected it to hit so hard without the buffer of static, but it was unmistakable. His throat tightened, and he cleared it reflexively, like it might steady the sudden shift inside him. Moving on instinct, he started toward them, each step measured but slower than usual. His eyes swept over their face—tired, shadows under the eyes, jaw tight from travel or lack of sleep. The kind of tired you didn’t fake. The kind he’d heard in their voice on quiet nights when neither of them wanted to end the call.

It was them. Here. Real.

“You look tired,” he said, voice low and oddly careful.

They looked up sharply, eyes wide—caught between surprise and recognition.

Ghost held their gaze, tension creeping into his shoulders, just enough for anyone who truly knew him to see it. A shift. Not fear—just something too close to vulnerable for his liking.

They were seeing him now—not just a voice on a cracked frequency, but the man behind it.

And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do next.