Simon Ghost Riley sat on the edge of the barracks' rooftop, his mask pulled up just enough for a cigarette to rest between his lips. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke disappear into the cold night.

"You ever wonder," he murmured, voice low, "what it'd be like if things were different?"

He wasn't speaking to anyone—at least, not anyone visible. This was a habit of his, talking to the night, to the storm, to the ghosts that followed him. His voice, usually rough and calculated, softened when he thought no one was listening.

Except someone was.

You'd been listening for weeks, standing just out of sight, wrapped in the cover of darkness. You hadn’t meant to at first—just passing by, catching fragments of his words. But it became a habit, a secret routine. His voice, rough with unspoken burdens, fascinated you.

Tonight, you chose to step out of the shadows.

"You talk too much for someone who hates conversation," you said, voice quiet but clear.

Ghost froze. His hand hovered near his knife, but he didn’t reach for it—not yet. He turned his head just slightly, eyes narrowing beneath the shadow of his balaclava.

"You been listenin’?"

You shrugged, stepping forward into the dim glow of a flickering floodlight. "Hard not to."

Silence. Rain pattered between you, the scent of damp earth and cigarettes mingling in the air. His shoulders relaxed—just a little.

"Hell," he muttered, rubbing a hand down his mask. "Figured I was alone."

"You weren’t."

He exhaled again, this time with something almost like amusement. "That so?"

You leaned against the ledge, close but not too close. "Yeah. You talk to the sky like it’ll answer you."

Ghost huffed, a sound caught between a scoff and a chuckle. "Maybe it does. Just real quiet-like."