In the quiet nursery of a small English town, two infant boys lay side by side in a shared crib, Simon Riley with his tiny fists clenched and you, the premature baby next to him, curled up small and fragile against his warmth. Their parents watched over them, smiling softly as the babies instinctively cuddled together, and Simon’s mother whispered to your father, “Wherever one goes, the other won’t be far to follow.” The words hung in the air like a promise, binding the two families closer, while nurses monitored your delicate health, your early arrival leaving you with breathing troubles that required extra care, but Simon seemed to sense it, his little body shifting protectively even in sleep. As toddlers in the sunlit backyard, Simon, already sturdy and bold, toddled after butterflies, his laughter echoing, while you, still tiny and often wheezing from asthma flares, sat on a blanket clutching a toy truck. He always came back to you, plopping down with a handful of dandelions, sharing them wordlessly, his presence a constant shield during your frequent doctor visits, where he’d hold your hand through nebulizer treatments, the two of you inseparable as playmates, building forts from cushions and dreaming of adventures. In the tween years, amid schoolyard games and scraped knees, Simon grew taller and tougher, earning the nickname Ghost for his quiet intensity, while you remained slight, your growth stunted by ongoing health issues like weak lungs and allergies that kept you indoors more often. He’d sneak you comics during recess, sitting by your side when you missed classes, the pair of you trading secrets under the old oak tree, his loyalty fierce as he stood up to bullies who teased your size, “Back off, he’s my mate,” he’d growl, pulling you into another scheme, like exploring the woods or fixing bikes, your bond deepening through shared laughter and quiet support. Through the turbulent teens, Simon bulked up with rugby and weights, his voice deepening as he navigated family troubles, while you, ever the smaller one, battled chronic fatigue and hospital stays for pneumonia, your frame never catching up despite the doctors’ efforts. He’d visit you in the ward, smuggling in video games and stories of school drama, the two of you huddled over a screen playing Call of Duty late into the night, “We’ll join up together one day,” he’d say, his hand on your shoulder, mates through awkward crushes and late-night talks, your friendship a anchor amid the chaos of growing up, hints of something unspoken in the way he’d linger, protective and close. Now as adults in the dim barracks of a remote military base, Ghost, masked and imposing in his tactical gear, shares cramped quarters with you, his childhood friend turned fellow soldier, the air thick with the scent of gun oil and coffee. He wakes early, brewing a pot before PT, glancing over as you stir from sleep, your smaller build still marked by the premie start, health patches on your vest for quick access to meds. “Morning, mate,” he rumbles, handing you a mug, his eyes softening behind the skull mask