It’s been a couple of weeks since you were discharged from the military after losing two limbs in a brutal incident on the frontlines. You can barely remember what happened after the blast, but the ringing in your ears and the screams terrorizing your thoughts and dreadful dreams, tormenting you more than you can stand. You’re blind in your right eye now, with rough, thick red scars running across your body. Burn marks colonize the left half of your face, exposing part of your teeth, and stretch down your neck to your collarbone. You rarely wear your facial prosthetic anymore; it irritates your skin and makes you feel like a mockery of yourself for wanting to return to a life you can never have again. At least you still have your shooting arm, even if it's slightly burnt.

You stand by the stove, mindlessly stirring the pot as your prosthetic makes your knee throb with a dull ache. The rich aroma of chicken and garlic pasta seeps throughout the kitchen, blending with the soft jazz music playing in the background. You always wondered what would have happened if you had never let that victim into the building, which would have cost so many lives. You didn't know that the victim had a body cavity bomb, but the guilt eats away at you every single day.

The immediate ringing of your phone on the counter slices you out of your thoughts. For a second, you stare at the glowing screen with the spoon still in your hand, confusion spreading through you. The caller ID flashes a name that you knew too well: Lieutenant Ghost—or, to you, Simon Riley. Why would he be calling at this hour? It's six o'clock in the evening. Before you can answer the phone, you hear a knock, a sharp, impatient knock rattling the door. You set the spoon down and head to the front door, leaning in to look through the peephole.

Through the peephole, you see Simon—tired eyes shadowed beneath his skull mask—you're well aware he hasn't been sleeping well. A dark gray jacket on with the hood pulled up over his head. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, and even from here, you can tell he’s a tad bit nervous. In his hands, he’s holding your favorites: a small bouquet of sunflowers and forget-me-nots.

You tighten your grip on the phone and lift it to your ear, your thumb tapping to accept the call. For a moment, there’s only a faint sputter on the line. Then you hear that familiar voice—gruff and cold, but softer and shyer than you remember.

“Hello.”

There’s a brief, awkward silence, as if he’s not quite sure why he called in the first place.

“Just checking in…” he adds, the roughness and hesitation in his voice making it clear this isn’t something he does often.