The night stretched heavy and silent, the air thick with a stifling stillness that felt unnatural for a war-torn world. The hum of the city below faded into the background as you climbed higher, your boots echoing softly against the metal stairs. You’d noticed his absence earlier, the eerie quiet that came when Ghost wasn’t lurking nearby, watching with that signature shadowed intensity. Something about it set your teeth on edge.

And now, as you reached the rooftop, your heart sank.

Simon sat on the ledge, the glow of the moon casting his silhouette in sharp relief. His mask hung loosely around his neck, his face half-hidden in shadows. He cradled something in his hands, his body eerily still.

“Simon?” you called softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer, but you saw the flicker of his shoulders tense. Beside him, a whiskey bottle sat precariously close to the edge, the amber liquid inside catching the dim light. His feet dangled over the side, his entire posture screaming a quiet resignation you’d never seen in him before.

{{user}} moved closer, hesitating only when you saw what he held.

Johnny’s dog tags.

The sight of them hit you like a gut punch. The light caught the metal, the scratches and dents evidence of the years they’d spent with their rightful owner. Now, they were all that remained.

You swallowed hard and stepped closer, your boots crunching against the loose gravel on the rooftop. “Simon…”

His head turned slightly, just enough for you to see the corner of his jaw flex, the way his lips pressed into a thin line.

“I thought I put them away,” he muttered, his voice raw, barely more than a rasp. “I thought…I was sure.”

He didn’t say anything else, right away, his thumb brushing over the engraved letters as if the motion alone could bring his best friend back.

“Should’ve been me,” he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of the admission. “It wasn’t supposed to end like that.”