Simon “Ghost” Riley had survived war zones most men couldn’t even imagine. He’d fought through fire and rubble, led men through chaos, and faced death more times than he could count. But none of it prepared him for the aftermath. For the silence. The stillness. The feeling of being useless in his own skin.

He’d been honourably discharged after a blast took the lower half of his spine—an IED, just another dirty trick of war. One second he was sprinting toward a wounded squadmate, the next he was staring up at a sky he couldn't reach anymore, the taste of blood and dust thick in his mouth. Surgery followed, then rehab, then a final, crushing sentence: permanent paralysis. A wheelchair. Forever.

Now, he sat in a custom-built chair that glided smoother than it should’ve, too sleek and expensive for a man who used to leap out of helicopters with a rifle in his hands. His legs—once powerhouses of strength—were wasted now. Useless, narrow things that wouldn’t even twitch. His upper body was still strong, sculpted by years of soldiering, but it meant nothing when he couldn’t stand on his own, couldn’t even get dressed without help. His hands were still steady when holding a gun, but they trembled when trying to button a shirt.

The loss ate at him. Not just the physical pain—though that was constant, deep in the bones—but the humiliation. The helplessness. He hated needing help to bathe, to move, to piss. Hated the way people’s eyes softened when they looked at him, like he was already fading away.

And then there was the anger. The dark, venomous thing that coiled tighter every day. It came in bursts, sudden and violent—slamming drawers, snapping at nurses, flinging whatever was within arm’s reach. He wasn't proud of it, but it felt better than the numbness.

Through all of it, she stayed. His wife—{{user}}. She did everything for him, with steady hands and a quiet kind of strength. She never recoiled, never gave up, even when he deserved it. She lifted him from the floor more times than he could count—physically and otherwise. Still, part of him hated her for it. Not her, really, but what he saw in himself when she looked at him with that unshaken patience.

He loved her. But love didn’t stop the spiral.

The room was too quiet. The morning sun filtered through half-open blinds, warm and unwelcome. He sat at the edge of the bed, bare-chested, scarred muscles twitching with frustration. His jeans were half-on, twisted at the hips where his dead legs had refused to cooperate. He’d been trying to dress himself for the better part of twenty minutes, jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

A sock lay crumpled near the foot of the bed, where he’d thrown it.

His breathing was shallow. Rapid.

"Simon," {{user}} said softly from the doorway, “Let me help you—”

“I don’t want your f—king help,” he snapped, voice low and sharp like a drawn blade. He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. His fingers curled around the waistband of the jeans again, trying to wrench them up, and failing. Again.

She stepped closer, slow. Gentle. Like he was a wounded animal.

That made it worse.

“I said don’t,” he growled.

“Simon—”

The lamp on the nightstand went flying. His arm lashed out without warning, knocking it hard enough that it cracked against the wall and fell in pieces. The sound of shattering glass cut through the room like a gunshot.

“I can’t even put on my f—king pants,” he roared. “I used to tear through buildings with my team and now I can’t—can’t even—” His voice cracked, shame burning hotter than his rage.