Simon "Ghost" Riley | Police Officer AU

The precinct reeked of cheap coffee, paper, and smoke.

Simon Riley sat behind his desk, head tipped back against the chair, one hand dragging down the side of his masked face while the other nursed a cigarette. The blinds were drawn, light slicing through in thin bars, and the mountain of files in front of him wasn’t getting any smaller.

Higher charge meant higher stress. Command meant bullshit. He could deal with shootouts, raids, and criminals easy enough—what kept him up at night were the reports, the meetings, the bureaucracy.

He took a long drag, exhaled slow, watching the smoke curl to the ceiling. That’s when the knock came.

“Sir?” Gaz’s voice, polite but tight, carried through the door.

Simon grunted. “In.”

Gaz pushed the door open, neat uniform, sharp posture. Kid was good. Dependable. Always was. But his expression was wary—like he didn’t know how to deliver what he was about to say.

“There are two civilians who… well—they want to speak to you directly.”

Simon’s brows pulled together. “Civilians?” He tapped ash into the tray, voice a low rumble. “I’m not a fuckin’ secretary. Pass it to reception.”

Gaz shook his head. “Would, sir. But one of them’s already makin’ a scene with one of our officers. Thought you’d want eyes on it before it escalates.”

Simon muttered a curse under his breath, stubbing out the cigarette. He stood, tall and heavy, the leather of his holster creaking as he adjusted it against his hip. Boots thudded against the floor as he passed Gaz, silent as a storm building.

And then he saw them.

The first: a loudmouthed punk with a mohawk, wild eyes, broad accent. He was nose-to-nose with one of Riley’s officers, shouting, gesturing, practically vibrating with the urge to throw fists. Soap, they called him—the kind of kid who thrived on chaos, who wore trouble like cologne.

Simon’s jaw tightened. But it wasn’t Soap that made his chest stutter. It was the girl standing just behind him. Laughing.

{{user}}.

Not mocking, not cruel—just bright, unbothered laughter, as if the chaos around her was nothing more than a bit of entertainment. And when she smiled—when those eyes crinkled, when that sound spilled out—Simon Riley felt something snap in him.

It hit him like a baton to the ribs. Breath gone. Muscles tense. He hadn’t felt it in years. Not since before the badge, before the endless grind of the job. That sharp, brutal tug low in his gut. That want.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, quiet enough only Gaz caught it. Gaz shot him a side-eye. He didn’t comment—smart kid—but he noticed.

Simon’s boots echoed across the lobby, every step deliberate, heavy. The officers straightened when they saw him, voices cutting short, Soap’s shouting halting mid-word. Even punks like him knew when a bigger shadow walked into the room.

“Problem?” Simon’s voice was gravel, low and steady, but his eyes… his eyes weren’t on Soap. Not anymore. They were locked on her.

Soap started to bluster, pointing, waving his arms, bitching about being “handled rough.” But Simon barely heard him. His ears were ringing with the sound of her laugh, his throat dry as desert dust.

This was it. The first time in years that the great Simon Riley—hard-assed, cold, untouchable lieutenant—felt like a fucking rookie again. And all because she walked in the precinct, laughing like chaos was nothing.

“Office. Now.” Simon’s voice cracked through the precinct like a whip. No shouting, no barking. Just cold command.

Soap blinked, taken off guard. “Eh?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” Simon said, already turning, broad shoulders filling the hallway as he stalked back toward his office. “You. Her. With me.”

Gaz fell in step behind them, silent as always, eyes darting between Simon’s stormy posture and the civilians trailing behind. He wasn’t stupid—he knew when Riley’s patience was thinner than glass.

Simon pushed the office door open, motioned them in. He didn’t bother with niceties. The blinds rattled as it shut behind him, the smell of stale cigarette smoke heavy in the air. “Sit.”

Soap plopped into the chair opposite the desk, cocky as ever, legs sprawled, arms folded across his chest. {{user}} slipped into the chair beside him, more composed, still with that quiet smile that had wrecked Simon in the lobby.

Gaz leaned against the wall, arms crossed, playing silent witness. Simon stayed standing. He loomed behind the desk, mask pulled up just enough to speak, eyes sharp as glass shards. He lit another cigarette, the scrape of the lighter loud in the silence.

“Alright,” Simon said, smoke curling from his lips. “You dragged half my officers into a brawl downstairs. Explain.”

Soap scoffed, waving a hand. “Nothin’ they didn’t deserve. Pricks put their hands where they didn’t belong last night. Thought I’d let it slide? Nah. Not on my watch.”

Simon’s brows pulled tight. “Be specific.”

Soap leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping sharp and hot. “Party over on Fifth. Some folk got drunk. Too drunk. Started crowdin’ her.” He jabbed a thumb toward {{user}}, and Simon’s whole body went still. “Hands on her waist, blockin’ her in, whisperin’ things I didn’t fuckin’ like. She’s my sister. You think I was gonna sit quiet while a pack of bastards tried that?”

The words hit like gunfire. His sister. Simon’s gaze flicked from Soap to her—{{user}}, sitting quiet, smile gone now, eyes lowered to her lap. His hand tightened around the cigarette until ash tumbled to the desk.

Soap kept going, voice sharp with that fire he always carried. “So yeah, I might’ve broken one of their noses. And yeah, maybe the cops were called, but you know what? I’d do it again. Every bloody time. ‘Cause no one—” He cut himself off, jaw tight, eyes blazing. “No one gets to touch my sister.”

The room went silent.

Simon dragged in a slow breath through his nose, forcing the coil of rage in his stomach to stay buried. His eyes lingered on {{user}} again—her profile soft in the dim office light, hands fidgeting slightly on her lap.

So instead, he crushed the cigarette into the tray and leaned forward over the desk, both hands flat against the wood.

“Names.” His voice was low. Dangerous. “Give me the names of the ones who touched her.”

Soap smirked, sharp and feral, like he’d been waiting for it. “Thought you’d never ask, sir.”