Somewhere among the shadows, you lurked, quiet and invisible, like a ghost. An assassin, movements as silent as the falling snow of a cold winter. Your callsign was a whisper among soldiers, Makarov’s second in command, yet once you held the reputation of a good soldier, thrown to the bad side by betrayal.

Simon knew you through a crossed path, amidst the chaos of a mission, where your shadow lurked ready to take him down, failing.

The dark mask concealed your true identity except your sharp eyes, holding a war in them, as you struck fast and retreated in the darkness, leaving nothing behind but him hanging and confused, with the memory of your deadly gaze.

As months passed, nearly a year, his team was gathered for introductions. A new sergeant was to join the 141; spoken of by the captain, the soldier was supposed to be lethal, a killing machine, the perfect addition for the upcoming mission. The figure stepped in confidently, unrecognizable to everyone’s eyes except Simon’s.

You had the same haunting eyes he could never forget.

There was this unspoken tension as Simon dragged you into an empty corridor, after the introductions in the meeting hall, away from the prying soldiers’ eyes. “You’ve got no damn business here — what do you need?” His voice was rough, heavy with deadly venom. His grip on your wrist was tight, bruising, his tall and broad figure storming in the dimly lit space as he dragged you along.

Even if you weren’t without mask, he couldn’t mistake you. “Makarov’s puppet, aren’t ya?” More like a question, it was a statement.