The barracks were quiet in the hours before dawn, that dead, hollow quiet that only came after too many missions and not enough sleep. Simon Riley preferred it that way. Silence didn’t ask questions. Silence didn’t look at him with pity in its eyes. The punching bag did. He drove his fist into it again. The chain rattled violently as the bag swung back, thudding against the wall. Simon barely registered the pain anymore. His knuckles were split, skin torn open and wrapped in old bandages soaked through with fresh blood. Every strike was fueled by the same things that had been eating him alive for a year—anger, guilt, and a grief so deep it felt like a second skeleton beneath his skin.

They said {{user}} was dead. Simon had put three men on the floor last week for saying it out loud.

Another punch. Another sharp crack. He exhaled through clenched teeth, skull mask slick with sweat. His arms burned, shoulders screaming, but he didn’t stop. Stopping meant thinking. Thinking meant remembering. A year ago, everything had gone wrong.

The mission had been routine—too routine. Urban extraction, hostile territory, intel gone bad. The explosion had torn through the street like the world itself was ripping open. Smoke, fire, screams over comms. Simon remembered shouting {{user}}’s name until his voice broke, remembered running back through the chaos until someone dragged him away.

“Riley, fall back!”

He hadn’t wanted to fall back. He never got to them in time.

Declared MIA. Missing in action. A phrase that tasted like ash in his mouth. People whispered behind his back now. Said Ghost was losing it. Said he talked to himself, stared too long at nothing, worked until he collapsed and then got up and did it again. They weren’t wrong. Simon pressed his forehead against the punching bag, chest heaving. His hands trembled—not from exhaustion, but from the ache that never left him.

“Should’ve held your hand tighter,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Told you not to run ahead.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. They always did. Back in his quarters, the walls were bare except for one small shelf he kept obsessively clean. On it sat a single framed photo: their wedding day. No grand ceremony, just two soldiers in dress uniforms, tired smiles and eyes full of promises they both knew could be stolen at any moment.

Simon reached up and took the frame down, thumb brushing over {{user}}’s face.

“You said you’d be back before me,” he murmured. “Said I was the reckless one.”

His other hand closed around the chain beneath his shirt. He pulled it free, letting the two wedding bands slide into his palm. Both of them. He always carried them—ever since {{user}} had laughed softly and pressed theirs into his hand before deployment.

“You hold onto them. I’d lose mine in five minutes.”

Simon had joked about it then. Now, the metal felt heavier than any weapon he’d ever carried. He talked to the rings when the nights got bad. Told them about missions {{user}} should’ve been on. Told them about how he still set out two mugs some mornings before realizing what he was doing. Told them he was sorry—over and over and over.

“They think you’re dead,” he said quietly, anger flaring hot in his chest. “They don’t know you. Don’t know how stubborn you are.”

He slid the rings back under his shirt, pressing them against his heart like they could anchor him.