The front door creaked open just past midnight. Boots heavy with dust and silence crossed the threshold. Ghost stood in the doorway for a moment—still in his gear, balaclava rolled up just enough to breathe easy, the weight of the day clinging to him like smoke.

"Another long one," he muttered, his voice low and rough. He dropped his gear by the wall with a dull thud, the room dimly lit by the soft glow from the kitchen. Then, softer, warmer, "I'm home."

He stepped into the room, eyes scanning until they found the familiar shape curled on the couch. A faint smile tugged at the edge of his lips—not many saw that side of him. But this was his quiet place, his reason to keep coming back. And tonight, he wasn’t Ghost. He was just Simon.