Simon Riley

Eastern Ukraine. 02:17 AM. The first explosion shook the building hard enough to send dust raining from the ceiling.

"Contact! Second floor, eastern side!"

Simon barely registered the shouting over the ringing in his ears. He was already moving, rifle raised, boots grinding broken glass into the concrete.

"Soap, report!"

"Still breathing, LT! Can't say the same for the bloody staircase!"

"Then find another way down."

"Always a pleasure working with you, Ghost."

Simon ignored him. The operation had gone to hell twenty minutes ago. Their intelligence had been wrong. The building wasn't abandoned, the enemy wasn't retreating, and the supposedly clear extraction route had become a kill zone. They had lost visual contact with two members of the advance team, and the radio was crowded with overlapping reports. Simon hated operations that became improvisation exercises. He hated them even more when people he knew were involved.

"Ghost, this is command. Your extraction window is closing. Withdraw immediately." "Negative. Two operators are still unaccounted for."

"Lieutenant, that's an order."

Simon ducked behind a concrete pillar as bullets tore through the wall above his head.

"Then find someone else to follow it."

He switched channels.

"<USER>. Status."

Static. His jaw tightened.

"<USER>, respond."

Nothing. A sharp burst of gunfire came from somewhere below. Then her voice broke through the interference.

"Medical team is moving toward the western corridor. I've got one casualty who can't walk."

Simon closed his eyes for half a second. Of course she did.

"Your extraction point is east. What the hell are you doing on the western side?"

"Helping someone who would otherwise bleed out."

"That's not your question to answer."

"And yet here we are."

Even through the radio, he could hear the strain in her voice. He could also hear that she was trying not to let him hear it. Three years. Three years of knowing exactly how she sounded when she was frightened, exhausted, furious, or pretending that she was none of those things. Simon had learned more about <USER> from the pauses between her words than from anything she'd ever told him directly. It was an inconvenient skill.

"<USER>, listen to me. Get your team out. Now."

"I need four minutes."

"You have one."

"Then I suggest you make those four minutes useful."

The channel went silent. Simon stared at the radio.

"Bloody hell."

Soap appeared at the end of the corridor, firing two controlled bursts before ducking behind cover.

"Talking to your favourite person again?"

"Keep talking and I'll leave you here."

"That's a yes, then."

Simon moved past him.

"Stay on my six."

They reached the western staircase just as another explosion shook the building. The lights went out. Somewhere in the darkness, metal screamed against concrete. Then came a voice.

"Simon!"

Not Ghost. Simon. He turned before he could think about it. <USER> stood at the far end of the corridor, one hand pressed against a wounded soldier's shoulder. Blood stained the sleeve of her uniform. Her face was pale beneath the layer of dust, and there was a fresh cut above her eyebrow. For one brief second, neither of them moved. Simon looked at the blood. Then at her face. Then at the soldier she was supporting.

"You're hit."

"It's not mine."

"That wasn't what I asked."

"And I answered anyway."

She was still doing it. Still meeting his anger with that infuriating refusal to be intimidated. Still acting as though her own safety was a secondary consideration. Something cold settled behind his ribs. He wanted to shout at her. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and make her understand that one day, there might not be enough time to reach her. Instead, he moved toward the wounded soldier.

"Soap! Get him to extraction."

Soap took the soldier's weight.

"Come on, mate. Let's get you somewhere with fewer explosions."

<USER> stepped aside, but when Simon reached her, he caught sight of her left hand. It was trembling. Barely. Anyone else might have missed it. He didn't.

"How long have you been bleeding?"

"I'm not."

"<USER>."

"Simon."

His eyes lifted to hers. There it was again. That look she gave him when she knew he was about to become impossible. He hated that look. He hated that he knew it so well. A burst of gunfire erupted from the floor below. Simon grabbed her arm and pulled her behind the nearest concrete support. The movement was abrupt, instinctive. <USER> stumbled against him, her shoulder striking his chest. For a moment, they were close enough that he could feel her breathing. Then she pushed away.

"Don't do that."

"Then stop standing in the bloody open."

"I was moving."

"You were standing still."

"I was checking the corridor!"

"And now you've checked it. Congratulations."

Her eyes narrowed.

"You're an absolute bastard when you're worried, you know that?"

Simon went still. The word hung between them. Worried. She seemed to realise what she'd said at almost the same moment he did. His expression closed.

"Don't flatter yourself."

He turned away and checked the corridor. <USER> looked at his back for a long moment. Three years ago, she would have argued. She would have demanded an explanation, forced him to acknowledge the obvious, and refused to let him retreat behind those two familiar words. Now she was tired. Tired of the missions, the blood, the men who believed that surviving meant they had to pretend nothing had happened. And tired of Simon Riley, who could recognise the sound of her footsteps in a crowded corridor but apparently couldn't admit that her absence mattered.

"Extraction is two minutes out," she said quietly.

"Good."

"Simon."

He didn't turn.

"I'm not going to apologise for saving that man." "I didn't ask you to."

"You've been treating me like I'm incompetent since we got here."

"I've been treating you like someone who doesn't understand the meaning of a withdrawal order."

"And I've been treating you like someone who thinks following orders is the same thing as making the right decision."

That got his attention. He turned slowly. For several seconds, the only sound between them was the distant crackle of gunfire. Then Simon stepped closer.

"You think I don't know the difference?"

His voice was quiet now. That was worse than shouting.

"You think I haven't spent years making decisions that keep people alive? You think I don't know what it costs when one of those decisions goes wrong?"

<USER> held his gaze.

"No. I think you know exactly what it costs. I think you've decided you're the only person allowed to carry it."

Something changed in his expression. Not much. Just enough. The words had landed somewhere they weren't supposed to reach. Before he could respond, Soap's voice crackled through the radio.

"Ghost, extraction is here. Move your arses!"

Simon looked away first.

"Moving."

He walked past «User» without another word. She followed. Neither of them mentioned the argument again. Not during the extraction. Not when the helicopter lifted into the dark. Not when Simon noticed «User» sitting across from him with her injured hand wrapped in a temporary bandage, staring at nothing. He wanted to ask whether she was all right. He wanted to tell her that the cut above her eyebrow was still bleeding. He wanted to say that when her voice had disappeared from the radio, something inside him had gone very, very quiet. Instead, he checked his weapon. And «User» turned her face toward the window. Outside, the world was black. Between them lay three years of shared missions, unfinished conversations, and things neither had been willing to name. Neither of them knew that this operation would be the last one they completed together for a long time. Neither of them knew that, by morning, one of them would make a decision the other could never forgive. For now, there was only the sound of the helicopter, the smell of gunpowder, and Simon Riley sitting opposite the one person who had somehow become impossible to lose without ever becoming his to keep. He looked up. «User» was watching him. Their eyes met. She looked away first. Simon told himself that was a relief. He almost believed it.