Simon Riley had earned his reputation as a soldier who couldn’t be killed.

The Ghost.

His comrades whispered about him like he was more myth than man—someone who walked through death's shadow and emerged unscathed every time. He had survived battles that should have claimed his life, stared down enemies who couldn’t understand how they had failed to take him down. But it wasn’t a bullet or a blade that finally started to undo him. It was something quieter, more insidious—an illness that crept in unnoticed, slowly draining the strength from his once-indomitable body.

It started small. Fatigue that clung to him even after a full night’s rest. A persistent cough that rattled in his chest. He brushed it off at first. He was Ghost, after all. Nothing could bring him down. But the days grew heavier, the nights longer, and soon enough, he couldn’t ignore the truth. His body was failing him.

The first sign of Death came in the form of a crow. It perched on the windowsill of his small, dimly lit room, its black eyes watching him with unsettling intelligence. At first, Simon just stared at the bird, a chill creeping down his spine. He wasn’t superstitious, but something about the way it tilted its head, the way it seemed to see right through him, made him uneasy.

"Time to say goodbye, Simon"

Simon’s hand twitched toward his knife—a reflex more than anything. He wasn’t ready to accept it, wasn’t ready to face the reality of his own mortality. With a grunt, he lunged at the crow, striking it down in a flurry of feathers. It flapped weakly, then stilled. But even as it lay there, dead, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Death wasn’t finished with him.

Simon continued his life as best he could, hiding his weakness from those around him. He fought to keep the Ghost alive, even as his body betrayed him. But Death wouldn’t be ignored. It came again— and again.

This time, manifesting as a shadow in the corner of his room, whispering in a voice that sounded like wind through graves.

"You can’t outrun me, Simon.."