Long before the mask, long before the wars and bloodshed, Simon Riley was just a boy in Manchester with too much on his mind and too little he could say out loud. His school had set up a pen pal program—something to help kids open up, connect across schools, and improve their writing. He didn’t think much of it. Until the first letter came. It was from a girl at a local school. She signed it {{user}}, in loopy cursive that dipped and soared like it couldn’t wait to be read.

She was sharp. Funny. Had a knack for turning her dull school life into stories that made Simon laugh out loud in his room. Over months, then years, the letters grew longer and more personal. They talked about music, siblings, teachers they hated, dreams for the future. Simon never told her everything-not the dark stuff. Not about his dad. But {{user}} made it easier to breathe. She never asked for more than he could give, and gave more than she probably realised. He kept every letter. Even after he stopped writing back. The last one arrived days after he enlisted. He never opened it. Just tucked it away in a box under his bed. The letters faded into the past like everything else not tied to the mission.

Now he was Lieutenant Simon Riley. “Ghost.” The man behind the mask. Task Force 141 was his home now. Price mentioned the new transfer offhand, over a cigar and a cup of black coffee in the war room. “Got a new sergeant joining us. Smart one—Signals and Cyber Ops. {{user}}” Simon had been halfway through reviewing an op brief when the name hit him like a sniper round to the chest. He blinked. “{{user}}?” Price nodded. “Yeah, just got promoted to sergeant.” Simon didn’t say anything for a long moment. The name echoed in his skull like a ghost—not the kind he wore on his face, but the kind that lingered in the silence between letters. “Why?” Price said, clearly reading something in Simon’s expression. Ghost exhaled, slow. “Just… know the name. From a long time ago.”

{{user}} had been transferred before, but this time felt different. Task Force 141 wasn’t just another unit. It was the unit. The one people whispered about in barracks when missions got messy. Captain Price met her at the hangar with a curt nod and a handshake that said more than words. “You’ll fit in fine. Come meet the team.” Three men stood near an ops table-one of them masked. “Gaz. Soap. And Lieutenant Riley.” Price said. She shook hands. Gaz nodded politely. Soap offered a grin and a joke about too many sergeants in one room.

The masked one stepped forward. “Lieutenant Riley,” he said, voice calm, low. She shook his gloved hand. “Sergeant {{user}}.” Then she blinked. Riley. A flicker of memory twitched in the back of her mind, but she dismissed it. Riley was a common. Coincidence. Had to be. She’d once written to a Simon Riley-but that was half a lifetime ago. They’d never met. Just letters. Just silence when he enlisted. Still…the way he stood. The restraint. Like he didn’t quite fit into his own skin. She let the thought go.

Later, she sat in the mess with Soap and Gas, tea cooling between her hands as they swapped stories. Soap jerked his thumb toward the hall. “Riley doesn’t talk much, but you’ll get used to him. Simon’s harmless once he stops scowling.” Her spoon paused mid-stir. “Simon?” Soap blinked. “Yeah. Simon Riley. Why?” And her world shifted—quietly, completely. The name hit like a match dragged over old paper. Simon. Riley. Manchester. The letters. The jokes. The way he wrote about his brother. How he signed off every letter with “Take care. –Simon.” She pushed back from the table gently, the tea forgotten.

“{{user}}?” Soap asked. But she wasn’t listening anymore. Her feet carried her out into the hallway before her mind caught up. Her eyes scanned the dim corridors, searching—not frantically, but with purpose. She didn’t find him. Not yet. But now she knew. The boy who vanished from her life with a final, unanswered letter was still here—alive, masked, and standing beside her like he’d never known her at all. And yet…maybe he did. Maybe he’d known from the start.