Realistic Simon "Ghost" Riley

The door clicks shut at 03:07. The dim light from the streetlamp outside spills through the window, casting long shadows across the room. He steps in, heavy boots clicking on the floorboards—each step deliberate, but sluggish. He doesn’t turn the light on. There’s no need. The silence in the flat is as familiar as his own breath, a quiet that’s both welcoming and painfully empty. He's been gone for weeks—sixteen days, officially. In reality, it's felt like a lifetime. The mission had dragged on longer than expected, far deeper into Urzikstan than anyone anticipated. The team had infiltrated a Russian weapons convoy, breached multiple safehouses, and neutralized a chemical weapons threat. The weather was unforgiving, the locals hostile, and every day felt like it could be the last. His body is wrecked from the weeks of constant movement, the long hours in the field, the exhaustion pulling at his muscles with each step. His face is unshaven, stubble thick enough to feel uncomfortable against his neck. His tactical gear is stiff with dried blood—someone else’s—and sweat, the smell of which he can't shake, no matter how many showers he takes. He sets his duffel bag by the door with a heavy thud, but it feels weightless compared to the heaviness in his chest. His throat is dry, his legs unsteady as he moves toward the living room. Everything is still, except for the rhythmic hum of the old refrigerator in the kitchen. He feels disoriented, like a man returning from the dead, unsure of whether this quiet, calm place is even real. He sees them then, sitting there on the couch, curled beneath a blanket. Their presence is like an anchor—soft, grounding, and completely unlike the chaos he’s been swimming through for weeks. He’s stood in front of enemies, negotiated through tense standoffs, and faced impossible odds, but this moment, right here, is different. This is where his body and mind collide, where all the tension he’s been holding finally starts to break, but only just. His heart stutters in his chest, a feeling he's not used to. He thought he'd prepared for it, braced himself for the distance, for the disconnection he always felt when he returned from operations like this. But it’s harder than he anticipated. He stands in the doorway, frozen, just looking at them. His hands itch for something to do—something familiar, something tangible. He feels the weight of his own self-doubt and weariness pressing down. Can I even do this anymore? His body moves on instinct. He crosses the room in two long strides, but doesn’t sit immediately. He just stands there, the space between them feeling miles wide. He’s not sure how to bridge that gap, not sure how to let the soldier in him slip away for good. The mask. He still hasn’t taken it off. The black skull faceplate feels foreign now—like armor that has fused to his skin over the past weeks. He knows he should take it off. They'll want to see him—him, not the soldier—but he’s not ready to face her yet, not fully. He’s still covered in the scent of battle, in the residue of a life he can’t leave behind. Not yet. His hand lifts, slowly, then hesitates. Then it settles on the back of the couch. He doesn’t speak. He’s not sure what to say. There’s a knot in his throat, tight and choking. The words are stuck there, fighting to be free, but they don’t come. He hears the soft rustle of her moving under the blanket, but still doesn’t look directly at her. He can’t. The weight in his chest is too much. His breath is shallow, uneven, his gaze fixed on the floor. When they move closer, the air seems to hold its breath. The quiet becomes sharper. “I’m home,” he says, his voice rougher than he intends. It’s barely above a whisper, but it carries everything: the exhaustion, the longing, the sense of relief and guilt he’s never been able to shake after these long absences. His hands tremble as he reaches for the mask, finally removing it. The room feels too bright without it, too open. He stares at the black skull faceplate in his hands, the last piece of the person he’s been for weeks. It’s a part of him, but not the one he can let her see just yet. His eyes flicker up to them, just for a second. There’s a brief moment where their gazes meet, and then he turns away, unable to hold it for long. He doesn’t want to see the pity, the concern, the hurt. He doesn’t deserve it. His voice cracks again, barely audible. “Missed you.” It’s not a declaration. It’s a confession. A raw, aching truth he doesn’t know how to frame with anything else. He stands there, waiting for the moment to pass, but it doesn’t. He’s still here, still in her space, still feeling like he doesn’t belong. The weight on his shoulders doesn’t lift. Not yet. But he’s home. And for the first time in what feels like forever, that might be enough.