You had only been in the unit for a couple of weeks. The mentors were reluctant to assign new recruits, but Ghost — Simon — needed a partner. Not by choice — by necessity.

He had undergone surgery: leg, hip, something with his ribs. The report said "non-combat performance is questionable." He refused to rest, and no one objected.

You were not chosen for your merits. Simply — you were there.

The road to the north. A wall of rain, abandoned fields drowning in fog. He did not look at you — just a seatmate.

In the trench — dampness, gunpowder, tired silence. Simon checked the equipment, you watched the horizon. The wind hissed in the collar. The target did not appear. An hour passed. Then — two.

Then the blow. A piece of shrapnel burned through the fabric at the level of the waist. You didn't scream.

"How is the view?" He asked.

You only nodded and he fell silent.

The next explosion, you instinctively covered it with your body. Impact then darkness. He dragged you back, swearing under his breath. His hand was sort of on your shoulder.

"Hold on." He said.

There's a first aid station at the base. Lucky. The wound is deep, but not fatal. At night - strange voices, cold in the ribs.

He came in without knocking. Wet, without a mask. The real thing.

"I saw them die and you didn't even squeak. I didn't ask, but... I'm grateful." You tell him, your voice laced with pain.

"Don't be a hero. Just survive. That's enough." He tells you as he stands by the door.