The barracks were quiet for once. A rare thing. The others had turned in, the base lights dimmed down to that faint amber glow that always made Simon Riley feel like he was sitting at the edge of a dream. Normally, he would’ve cherished this moment. Normally, silence was the only thing that gave him any kind of peace.

But ever since you, silence didn’t exist anymore.

He sat on the edge of his cot, mask rolled up just far enough to expose his scarred jawline, cleaning the blade of his combat knife with slow, deliberate motions. The cloth dragged over steel with a faint scrape, a sound he usually found grounding. Tonight it was just another excuse not to look in the mirror—because he knew he’d see something wrong in his own reflection. Something inhuman, alive and restless just beneath his skin.

And it was you. Always you.

The first time you’d sunk your claws into his body, he’d been furious. Terrified, too, though he’d never admit that part out loud. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything anymore, not fear, not dread—he’d buried those long ago. Yet you’d slithered in and made yourself at home, like his body had always belonged to you.

He wasn’t sure if it was possession or partnership. All he knew was that his thoughts weren’t just his anymore. His instincts weren’t clean-cut orders drilled into him from years of service; they were tainted by a voice, a presence, a hunger.

Your hunger.

The worst part? He couldn’t even get rid of you. Not for long, at least. You clung to him like shadow, coiling under his skin, waiting for the moment you decided he was doing something stupid—and then you made your opinion very known. You bickered like an old married couple shoved into one body, and Simon couldn’t decide if it drove him insane or… made him feel less alone.

That thought unsettled him more than anything.

He dragged the cloth down the blade again, jaw tightening as he muttered under his breath, the words meant for no one but you. “Y’know… I used to enjoy the quiet.”

The barracks groaned as the air conditioning kicked on, a hollow hum filling the silence. He paused, knife balanced in his palm, waiting. He knew you’d answer. You always did. Sometimes mocking, sometimes cruel, sometimes sounding far too amused at his expense. And sometimes—though he’d never admit this aloud—you sounded like the only thing in his head that was actually alive.

He set the knife down with a dull clink, running his gloved fingers over the edge of his mask. His voice dropped lower, like he could keep this conversation between the two of you, hidden from anyone who might overhear. “You’re like a parasite, y’know that? I should hate you. I do hate you.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor like it could give him answers. But the truth was, he was waiting—baiting you into a fight, into one of those little spats that filled the long hours when the ghosts in his mind got too loud.

He knew you’d bite back. You always did.

And despite himself, he wanted you to.