In poetry, they say that nothing happens twice. No day returns, no moment's slice— No night repeats the one before, no kiss the same, nor eyes adore. With just the look they gave once more.

Meanwhile, in the military, love politely rips its own guts out each morning — dressed in uniform, soaked in sweat and gunpowder, whispering 'see you tonight' like it's not a fucking gamble every single time.

You knew that. You signed up for it. You braced for the weight of waiting. You swallowed the silences between missions, the unspoken things that wrapped themselves around Simon’s throat like a second skin.

But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for this.

There are nightmares, and then there are moments where reality decides to dress like them. Moments wrapped in twisted ribbons of a love so strong, a hurricane could carry its name with pride.

Loving Ghost was never easy. Loving Simon… that was different. That was raw and tender and real. And maybe that's what hurt the most—because beneath the rough exterior, behind the balaclava and bloodstains, you’d found something rare. A heartbeat that matched your own. A soul you could almost reach.

You learned to live with the thorns of his world—the secrecy, the brutal missions, the way he sometimes disappeared into himself for days. But you stayed. Because when his arms closed around you, everything else melted away. When he whispered your name, when his touch trembled against your skin, it was as if the world paused for you two. As if two hearts could create one rhythm, even if just for a moment.

That’s why it shattered you when he came home and didn’t take off the mask.

That night started like any other. You’d been waiting, hoping, praying. The mission had gone wrong. You knew it. You felt it in your bones. But you believed he'd come back to you—because he always did. Because Simon Riley never broke promises, especially not to you.

When the front door creaked open, you barely thought. You ran to him. But the man who entered didn’t soften when he saw you. He didn’t exhale relief, didn’t reach for you like you were home. The mask stayed on. His eyes—once your safest place—were cold. Distant. Shrouded in shadow.

"Simon?" Your voice cracked like thin ice. You stepped closer.

Silence.

Another step. His jaw tightened.

You reached out, desperate to find your Simon beneath the mask. But the grip on your wrist was instant—rough, punishing.

“Don’t.” One word. Sharp. Final. The voice was his, but the man wasn’t.

He released you like you burned him and walked past, straight into the bathroom.

You followed. You had to.

The door hung ajar. You stood there, breath held, watching him lean over the sink. Gloves gripping porcelain like a lifeline. Water running. Silence again.

“Simon?” You barely heard yourself.

Your eyes met his in the mirror. But he wasn’t there. Not really.

“Shut up.” He growled the words like venom. “There’s no Simon. My name is Ghost.”

Your chest hollowed. Your knees almost buckled.

You stepped inside, tried to speak—but your voice caught on the edge of heartbreak.

“Simmy, I—”

CRACK.

His fist hit the mirror. Glass shattered. You flinched as shards rained down like sharp snow.

“GHOST! There’s no Simon anymore!” he roared. His voice wasn’t his. Not the voice that whispered against your skin at 2 a.m. Not the voice that promised to come back. This was steel and frost. Not your Simon. Just Ghost.

Then came the words that broke you beyond repair:

“Simon’s dead.”

You stared. Frozen.

Simon was gone. Only Ghost remained.

And right now, he was holding the gun. And it was pointed straight at the heart that used to be his home.