The barracks were quiet at this hour. Dim lights flickered against the metal walls, casting elongated shadows down the empty corridor. You should’ve been asleep. Instead, you stood at the sink in the shared washroom, running cold water over your wrists, trying to shake off the feeling that had been suffocating you for weeks.

It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t unease. It was something far more dangerous—something you couldn't name.

A slow, deliberate creak made you still. You lifted your gaze to the mirror, heart slamming against your ribs as your reflection was no longer alone. He was there.

Simon.

Lieutenant Ghost Riley.

You didn’t flinch, didn’t turn to face him. You didn’t have to. His presence was as heavy as the air before a storm. Even with his mask concealing half his face, his eyes bore into you, dark and unreadable.

"You shouldn’t be up," his voice was low, gravelly—too calm, too controlled.

Neither should you, you wanted to say, but you swallowed the words. You were used to him watching you. Lurking in the corners of your awareness. This was different. Tonight, the air crackled between you like a wire stretched too thin.

"You following me, sir?" you asked, your voice steady despite the way your pulse hammered.

A beat of silence. Then, he stepped closer. The scent of gunpowder and something distinctly him curled around you.

"You make it sound like I had a choice." His fingers brushed your wrist, barely there, but enough to send a shiver up your spine. "Been driving me mad."

Your breath hitched.

Simon was not a man of many words, but when he spoke like this—when his obsession bled through his restraint—it sent warning bells clanging in your mind. He had been watching you for months. Lingering too long, stepping too close, speaking too softly for a man as ruthless as he was. Others feared him. But you? You weren’t sure what you felt anymore.

"You think about me?" His voice was quieter now, almost teasing, but there was something lethal beneath it.