The war had taught Simon how to lose faces.

Yours was the only one that remained. The night you first met, he wore no mask. No skull. Just scars and those eyes that looked like they'd seen too much to ever look away again. You didn't ask who he was. You asked if he was still asleep.

Since then, he'd always appeared when you thought the darkness had won. And every time you whispered his name, something inside him answered that was no longer a soldier. Ghost was the mask.