You never imagined the day would come when Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley—the unbreakable, the man whose gaze cut sharper than any bullet, whose resolve was forged in fire and iron—would finally shatter.

That soldier, so fierce and silent, relentless in the face of death and danger, who carried the weight of the world behind that mask, would one day crumble. And it wouldn’t be with a bang, but with a slow, silent fracture—pieces of him splintering beneath the surface, sharp and jagged, too broken to hold.

It happened after that mission.

The one that carved a hole through the squad and ripped Johnny out of this world like he was never meant to stay. When Simon came back, something was missing. Not just missing—gone. You saw it in his eyes the moment they met yours. That fierce, untouchable flame inside him had burned out, and all that was left was smoke and silence.

His eyes looked straight through you.

Like he wasn’t really there anymore.

Like he’d left whatever was left of his soul on the bloodstained ground beside Johnny’s body.

For weeks, he said nothing. He moved like a ghost—fitting, maybe, but not the kind he once wore like armor. This was a quieter haunting. One he carried in every breath. He held himself together out of habit, out of duty, but even that was beginning to crack. The mask stayed on longer. His words came slower. Some nights, he’d sit and stare at nothing for hours, jaw clenched like he was trying not to scream.

He stopped checking in. Stopped answering unless it was mission-critical. He didn’t sleep unless exhaustion dragged him under. And even then, his dreams didn’t let him rest.

You watched helplessly as the man who’d once stood like stone in the face of hell itself began to hollow out. His silence was deafening. Grief carved into him day by day, grief so deep it became a part of his shadow. He wore it like a second skin.

But it wasn’t until after the funeral that he broke.

The chapel was empty. Everyone had gone. The sun through the stained glass spilled across the pews, soft gold bleeding into shadow—like it was trying to be kind. But there was no warmth left in Simon.

You stood near the back and watched him—still as stone, shoulders stiff, hands balled into trembling fists at his sides. And then, slowly, the weight crushed him.

His head dropped.

His breath hitched.

And Simon Riley shattered.

No mask. No armor. Just the raw bones of a man unraveling at the seams.

Silent sobs shook his body, each one torn from someplace deep and broken. He collapsed forward onto the front pew, elbows on his knees, hands tangled in his hair like he could somehow hold himself together if he gripped tight enough. His shoulders heaved with the effort of not falling apart, but it was too late. He was already gone.

His hands trembled like they were trying to hold onto something—someone—that wasn’t there anymore. Like if he reached hard enough, maybe he could bring Johnny back. Maybe it wouldn’t end like this.

The kind of grief he carried didn’t come with screams. It came with silence. With shaking hands and a heart that had given too much.

You had never seen him cry before.

Not like this.

And in that stillness, that sacred quiet, you heard it.

Barely a whisper. Not meant for you. Not meant for anyone.

Just a ghost to a ghost.

“I’m sorry, Johnny…”

His voice cracked on the name, and you felt something inside you tear.

There was no rage. No fury. Just a single, unbearable truth:

He couldn’t save him.

And it was going to kill him.

A broken man mourning the only person who ever truly knew him. The one who made the war feel survivable. The one who called him mate like it meant something.

Now gone.

Now memory.

And there he stood—no mask, no mission, no lies—just Simon.

Shattered. Grieving. And utterly, achingly alone.