Simon wakes up screaming.

Not a sound — not really. His throat locks around it, strangling the noise until it comes out as a broken rasp, like he’s still choking on dirt. His hands are already at his neck, fingers digging into scar tissue that never healed right. Rope burn, still pink at the edges. Still tender. Still there.

The room spins.

He can smell it again — damp earth, rot, the copper tang of blood where the fibres tore skin open. His lungs burn like they’re packed with soil. He coughs hard enough it makes his vision blur, gagging as his body insists it’s still buried, still six feet under with mud collapsing into his mouth every time he tried to scream.

He stumbles out of bed, knees buckling as his bare feet hit the floor. The flat feels wrong. Too dark. Too enclosed. Walls pressing in, ceiling too low. Coffin-small.

Simon checks the locks. Once. Twice. Three times.

His hands shake so badly he drops the knife, metal clattering against the counter. The sound detonates in his skull — he’s back on his knees, wrists burning, weight yanking him upwards while he fights for air that won’t come. The snap of rope fibres. The way the world went white at the edges.

“Breathe,” he snarls at himself, voice cracking. “Fuckin’ breathe.”

He presses his back to the wall, sliding down until he’s sitting on the floor, knees dragged tight to his chest like it might keep him from coming apart. His breathing is ragged, uneven, panicked — sharp inhales that don’t go deep enough, desperate exhales that leave him dizzy.

You’re awake now. He knows without looking.

“They didn’t kill me,” Simon says suddenly, staring at the floor. His voice is flat, detached — worse than if he were shouting. “That was the point.”

His fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeves, nails biting into skin until it stings.

“They wanted me to feel it. The rope. The drop. The panic.” A pause. Swallowing hard. “And when I didn’t die fast enough… they buried me.”

He finally looks at you, eyes bloodshot, hollow, rimmed with sleepless nights and fear he can’t shut off.

“I heard them laughing while they filled the hole.”

His chest tightens, breath hitching again.

“I still wake up thinking I’m underground. That if I move too much the dirt’ll cave in.” His jaw clenches. “I don’t sleep unless I’m armed. I don’t relax. Ever.”

There’s something ugly and ashamed in his expression when he adds, quieter, “If you weren’t here… I don’t know how long I’d last.”

Then his phone rings.

Not a text. A call.

The sound slices through the room. Simon flinches violently, hand snapping for the knife before his brain catches up. His heart is hammering so hard it makes his vision pulse. He stares at the screen like it might explode.

Unknown Number.

He answers anyway.

“…Riley,” he growls.

A calm, gravelled voice answers on the other end. Steady. Commanding.

“Simon. This is Captain John Price.”

Simon goes still.

Price doesn’t waste time.

“I know what was done to you. I know who did it. And I know you’re not finished.” A beat. “I’m putting together a unit. Best of the best. Task Force 141.”

Silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

“You want purpose again,” Price continues. “You want to make sure it never happens to anyone else.”

Simon’s grip tightens on the phone. His scars throb like they know.

“…You in?”

Slowly, Simon lowers the phone, eyes flicking to you — fear, fury, and something dangerous burning behind them.

“…Looks like the past’s caught up with me.”