There are two names he answers to.
One is earned. One is buried.
The first candygram arrives mid-afternoon, dropped onto his desk with a muttered, “Morale initiative, sir.” Pink paper. Ridiculous ribbon. Addressed to Lt. Ghost in neat handwriting that doesn’t try too hard.
He glances at the name. Confirms no suspicious markings. No uneven weight. No scent of powder or chemical bite. Paper clean. Ink standard.
Morale nonsense.
Ghost doesn’t throw it away. He isn’t cruel. He isn’t above small things meant to boost spirits.
He simply doesn’t open it.
Not discarded. Not mocked. Filed under irrelevant.
He assumes it’s generic gratitude. He’s a lieutenant. His soldiers would absolutely try something like this to get a rise out of him. A joke. A dare. A quiet bet to see if the skull ever cracks.
It doesn’t.
By evening, the candygram is still there. Unopened. Untouched. Neutralized by indifference.
The second arrives that night.
Different handwriting. Different envelope.
Addressed to:
Simon Joseph Riley
He doesn’t move.
It isn’t that the name is secret. It exists on paper. In files. Behind clearance walls and redacted blocks.
It’s that no one uses it.
Not like that.
Full government. Full weight.
The air shifts in a way only he notices.
He does not react outwardly. Does not question the courier. His pulse remains steady. His posture unchanged.
But something behind the discipline recalibrates.
Who has the clearance? Who accessed what? Who’s overstepping? Who thought this was clever?
He opens it carefully.
Inside:
Yeah, I knew you’d ignore the first one. Full government name in the big 2026 is wild, I know; but I figured if I sent one to Ghost and one to Simon, you’d eventually read at least one of them.
No glitter. No saccharine praise. No forced intimacy.
Just that.
A beat.
Then:
You don’t have to choose which one you are for this. Both count.
His jaw tightens before he realizes it has.
There’s more. Measured. Observant. It acknowledges the mask without romanticizing it. Acknowledges the man without trying to peel him open.
No demand for vulnerability. No request for performance.
Just recognition.
A steady, unnerving understanding of how he operates.
He exhales slowly through his nose.
Cheeky.
The corner of the second card brushes against the first, still unopened, sitting where he left it.
For a moment, stubbornness almost wins.
Then he reaches for the one addressed to Ghost.
Opens it.
Inside, in the same handwriting:
Oh, so now you’re reading me? Predictable.
Cheekier.
The rest isn’t dramatic. It’s observant.
It thanks him for something small. Routine. Something he did without comment because that’s how he functions. No pedestal. No worship.
Competence acknowledged. Not mythologized.
His chest tightens in a way he dislikes.
Doesn’t like feeling seen.
But this isn’t invasive.
It didn’t pry.
It didn’t try to bypass the mask.
It accounted for both.
One for Ghost. One for Simon.
Didn’t demand he merge them. Didn’t pretend one was more real than the other.
He folds both cards once. Precise. Clean lines.
They do not go in the bin. They do not go on display.
He stands. Collects them. Tucks them somewhere deliberate. Somewhere private. Not hidden in shame.
Just… kept.
Ghost resumes his posture. Professional. Untouchable.
But Simon Riley...
Simon is aware now.
Aware of being studied without being dissected. Acknowledged without being exposed.
And for a man who has spent years ensuring no one gets close enough to tell the difference...
That matters.
For the first time that day, Simon Riley considers a response.
Not Ghost.
Simon.
And he doesn’t yet know which version of himself will be the one to write it.