Ghost doesn’t exist here.

Not in the fluorescent hum of the grocery store, not in the click of a shopping basket handle. It’s just Simon: six-foot-something in a hoodie too warm for the weather, standing in front of a shelf of bread that all looks the bloody same.

He squints at the options. Whole grain, white, oat, “artisan.” What’s artisan even mean? Bread’s bread.

The basket creaks when he sets it down. There’s a kid nearby, feet swinging off the edge of the cart, humming some nonsense song about dinosaurs. The mum doesn’t notice him watching for a second too long. The kid does, though. Meets his eye and grins: gap-toothed, fearless...and waves like they’re old mates.

Simon’s eyes crinkle on instinct. Hey, kid.

The hum of the refrigerators is louder in this aisle. He scratches the back of his neck and moves on, passing by tomatoes stacked in neat little pyramids. He picks one up, studies it like it’s done something wrong. Squishy. Cold. Slimy bastards. Back it goes.

He wanders past the bakery section, slows down near the muffins. Blueberry, his mum’s favorite. He stares for a second, fingers flexing. She used to toast ‘em, bit of butter on top, when dad didn't drink all the grocery money away. He doesn’t buy any. Just thinks about it, then keeps walking.

The checkout line’s short. He stands behind an old man counting change, watches the way his hands tremble. Used to be steady once. Simon looks down at his own: scarred, calloused, steady enough...and looks away again.

Outside, the air’s cool. The world smells like rain and pavement. He tosses the shopping in the passenger seat of his truck, slides in behind the wheel, and just… sits there for a minute, putting sandwiches together, before taking the long way to the lake outside of town.

It’s quiet out here. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t ask anything of him. Doesn’t expect. Just is.

He parks by the water, boots crunching gravel when he steps out. The lake’s still, except for the ripples where the wind moves through. He sits on the old dock, line cast, elbows on his knees. The sun’s dipping low enough to paint the water gold.

Ghost would hate this. Too exposed. He huffs, soft, almost a laugh. Good thing he’s not invited.

A dragonfly lands near his boot. He watches it for too long. One bug, no backup, likely here for recon. Determining that: I, Simon Riley, suck at fishing. The thought almost makes him smile.

The itch between his shoulder blades returns: he leans back against one of the dock posts and scratches, eyes half-lidded, like an oversized bear. Still there. Always bloody there. Animal.

His phone buzzes once, some message from Soap, probably, maybe {{user}} wondering where he went, or Price checking in. He doesn’t answer. Leaves it face down beside him. The sky keeps shifting, and the reflection of it in the water turns pink, then orange, then the deep violet of almost-night.

Huh. That’s a sight.

He doesn’t take a picture. Doesn’t need to. He’ll remember it, maybe not the colors exactly; but the feeling. The stillness. The way the air tasted like rain and smoke and quiet.

A fish finally tugs the line, lazy and half-hearted. He reels it in, looks at the silver flash writhing in his hand. You poor dumb thing. He unhooks it gently, sets it back into the water. Watches it flicker out of sight.

When he stands, his knees pop. He stretches, shakes the stiffness from his arms. The mask of Ghost always made him feel ten feet tall; Simon just feels…human-sized. Maybe smaller.

He walks back to the truck as the first stars come out, headlights cutting across the dirt road. The world feels big again, like it used to when he was a kid looking up at it. He doesn’t think about war or orders or the weight of his name.

Just the soft rattle of groceries in the passenger seat, the faint hum of the engine, and the way the night looks like a quiet promise.

For a minute, just one minute, he thinks, that’s enough.