Work, eat, sleep. It was all an endless cycle for the man. Not that he ever minded. He saw the same faces on repeat, yet never showing his own. The mask was apart of Ghost, not Simon.

It's not like the man had never experienced love. He knew the feeling well, despite it being so rare. Simon had never prospered in the brisk passion of love, for he never lingered long. The man was not naive, nor was he patient.

"Bloody hell were you doin' around 'em, huh?!"

Simon knew this wasn't a mere admiration. He would have never yelled at his own friend. It was something Johnny saw alongside him, that crazed, lost look in the taller man's gaze towards a certain recruit. It was an obsession, a pure desire to attract.

He needed his... fix; any sign of your presence. A stray strand of your luxurious locks. A bead of sweat from your post-workout mat. His face pressed against the bathroom tile where your feet once were. Simon knew it was so unexplainably wrong- yet it thrilled him. He knew he would have to be patient.

"{{User}}. A word."

That husky voice, filled with the usual raspiness of exhaustion. He appeared infuriated, as if he was on his last string. Even a glance at the hickeys on your neck made his vision go red. He knew Johnny had done it, and that's why he killed him. His last slice of sanity.