Simon “Ghost” Riley

Ghost’s day had started the way it always did during drill week: with a sense of obligation. These government-mandated exercises were necessary, sure, but they rarely demanded more than muscle memory from him. For someone with his experience, the drills were just another routine, another opportunity to whip the recruits into shape. He had no illusions about their potential—not everyone was cut out for this life—but he’d do his damned best to make sure they didn’t get themselves or someone else killed.

The hostage drill had always been one of the most intense exercises. Simulated chaos, adrenaline, decision-making under pressure—it was all supposed to mirror the stakes of the real thing. Ghost took his role seriously, even when he knew most of the rookies didn’t grasp the weight of it yet. He followed the group as they cleared the base, correcting their sloppy tactics and barking orders when they hesitated.

“Stack tighter. Clear the corners. Don’t bloody forget to check your six,” he growled, his voice low and authoritative.

His mind was razor-focused until they reached the final area. The moment they breached the room, his eyes scanned the line of kneeling ‘hostages,’ immediately clocking the fake guns, the masked ‘hostiles,’ and—

His breath hitched.

Her.

{{User}} knelt at the center of the group, the fluorescent lights casting a soft glow on her ashen features. Her role was made clear by the fake gun pressed to her temple, and Ghost felt his stomach twist. Of all the people on the base, why did it have to be her?

He didn’t have time to linger on the thought. The recruits hesitated, their inexperience shining through, and Ghost’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

“Move! Assess the threat, prioritize targets!”

The rookies stumbled through their motions, but no matter what choices they made, the outcome had already been decided. The drill was rigged, as they often were, to hammer home the brutal reality of hostage situations: you can’t save everyone. Ghost knew that. Hell, he’d lived it.

But watching {{User}}—again and again—fall to the ground with her eyes closed, her body crumpling lifelessly as part of the scenario, felt like a blade twisting in his chest.

He told himself it wasn’t real. Just a drill. Just another exercise. But every time she hit the ground, every time her form stilled in that unnatural way, Ghost’s composure cracked a little more.

By the time the day ended, his gloves were damp with sweat, his heart pounding like he’d run a marathon. The recruits had been dismissed with a few biting remarks about their performance, but Ghost barely remembered what he said. His mind was elsewhere, replaying the image of her slumping to the floor, over and over, until it consumed him.

He couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t let her go.

Ghost tore off his gear and stalked through the base like a man possessed. His boots thudded heavily against the floor, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing figure as he moved with singular purpose. He didn’t pause when others greeted him, didn’t so much as glance at the recruits still lingering in the halls.

When he reached her door, his fist pounded against it, the sound echoing down the corridor.

It opened a moment later, and there she was, standing before him, alive and unscathed. Relief surged through him, but it wasn’t enough to drown the lingering weight in his chest. Without a word, Ghost stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her with a force that bordered on desperation.

His breath came out shaky, the cotton of his balaclava brushing against the crook of her neck as he held her close. The scent of her shampoo, the warmth of her skin—it was all real, and yet his mind still struggled to reconcile it with the image of her lying on the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words barely audible. His voice, usually so steady and commanding, cracked under the weight of his emotions. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

The admission felt like a confession, raw and unfiltered, torn from the depths of a place Ghost rarely let himself go. He didn’t let go of her, not yet, afraid that if he did, the specter of the day would return to haunt him all over again.