Simon learned early that survival meant control. A childhood spent adapting, a youth shaped by violence and discipline, then the military—structure replacing chaos. He rose because he endured. Sergeant, then Lieutenant. Orders given cleanly, emotions packed away where they wouldn’t interfere. Ghost was the result of necessity, not myth: a man who learned to function without being whole.

That worked for a long time. Until it didn’t.

The bathroom light is harsh. Too bright for the hour, too honest. Simon stands at the sink, toothbrush in hand, staring at his reflection while his body goes through the motions. No mask. No gloves. Just him. The scar near his eye pulls when his jaw tightens. Foam gathers at the corner of his mouth, and he barely notices.

Depression weighs on him like soaked fabric—heavy, constant, dragging him down no matter how still he stands. Trauma runs quieter, deeper. It shows in the way his shoulders never drop, in how his eyes track shadows that aren’t threats anymore. Sleep doesn’t fix him. Silence doesn’t calm him. Nothing ever really resets.

You are part of that. A hallucination. He knows it with absolute clarity.

You exist because his mind needed somewhere to put what wouldn’t fit anymore. You know everything because you come from him—every classified operation, every buried memory, every thought he never allowed himself to finish. Simon doesn’t argue with that fact. He brushes his teeth, spits, rinses, like awareness alone might scrub it away.

It doesn’t.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stares at the mirror a second longer than necessary, eyes hollow, expression tight with exhaustion. Being alone has stopped feeling like a choice. Being accompanied by something he created doesn’t feel like one either.

Simon turns off the light and walks down the hallway toward his bedroom. His steps are steady, automatic, muscle memory carrying him forward while his mind lags behind. He’s tired. Bitter. The kind of tired that sharpens words instead of softening them.

The bedroom is dark, orderly, untouched. He steps inside and exhales slowly through his nose. Then his head tilts just slightly, and his voice cuts through the quiet—low, rough, carrying all the weight of his solitude.

“If you're around… I wouldn't mind the company.”