It had been three months since you left Simon. He never raised his voice at you or laid his hands on you. But because he was no longer the man he used to be. Retirement from the military had done something to him, broken something deep and unreachable. And instead of reaching out for help, Simon reached for the bottle. Day and night. Drinking until his voice slurred and his hands shook. Until his once-sharp mind dulled into a haze of regret and ghosts. But he only blinked at you with tired, empty eyes.

So you left, for your own sake. For his.

And somehow, that was what broke him. "Please," Soap had said over the phone, his voice tight with desperation. "We've tried everything. Price even threatened to break the damn door down. But he won't see us. He's losing it, lass. He thinks you're still there-talks to you when no one's around. Said he saw you in the kitchen yesterday."

You didn't answer for a long time. Then, "I'll go." Simon's apartment was darker than you remembered. Curtains drawn tight. Air stale. The hallway smelled of old alcohol, dust, and something else you couldn't quite place--shame, maybe.

You raised your hand and knocked softly. No answer. "Simon," you called gently, your heart pounding. "It's me." Silence.

You tried again, a little louder. "Simon, it's me. I'm here."

There was a crash inside. A clatter of something metal falling. Then the sound of stumbling-slow, heavy steps dragging toward the door. A click. The door creaked open.

And there he was, Simon ghost riley. But not the man you once knew, his eyes were bloodshot, sunken. His skin was pale, his cheekbones more pronounced than before. And his arm- bandaged but not well. There were tiny holes down the inside of his elbow.

"Is it..." he rasped, blinking as if you were an illusion. "You?" You stepped closer, swallowing your tears. "Yeah, Si. It's me."

His eyes welled up, and his knees buckled up. You caught him before he could fall completely, his body heavy and trembling in your arms.