You were six when you last saw him—mud on your knees, a cut lip from falling during one of your races through the empty alleys behind your school. Ghost, or Simon, as he was known back then, was the only person who ever held your hand tight enough that it felt like maybe the world wasn’t so cruel.

Both of you came from wreckage. Your dad had a habit of drinking and a voice that could shatter plates from the other room. His mom barely opened her eyes long enough to remember she had a son. Somehow, those broken pieces in each of you fit just enough to make something that felt safe.

But safety doesn’t last when you’re six. Especially not when your dad slams the door and says, “You’re done playing with him. That boy’s trouble. You’re not dragging your future down with trash.”

You tried to fight. You really did. But when your bruises started matching the size of his fists, silence became easier. Leaving Simon without a word was easier.

And you were young.
You were stupid.
You thought obeying them would fix everything.
You thought maybe the abuse would lessen if you obeyed.

It didn't.

You didn’t even say goodbye.

He waited in your alley for weeks after. Brought that cracked plastic sword you both used to pretend was Excalibur. He sat under the power line where you used to count birds, waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

But you never came.

Years passed. You buried the guilt under books, assignments, the performance of a good life. You built walls and called it healing. Told yourself it had to be done.

But some truths don’t rot. Some stay in your gut like arrows, lodged too deep to pull out.

You joined the military. You told yourself it was to help people. But maybe it was because you wanted to hurt, too.

You didn’t recognize Ghost at first when he pulled off that skull mask in the med bay, voice sharp, eyes sharper.

But he recognized you.

He always did.

“You left,” he said, not a question. “Didn’t even say goodbye.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. The words drowned under years of unsaid things.

“I waited.” His voice cracked, quiet now. “I waited every damn day.”

You stepped forward. “Simon, I—”

“No.” He shook his head, jaw locked. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know. You were all I had.”

There was blood on his knuckles from the last mission, bruises blooming under his shirt like flowers made of pain.

You reached for his hand.

“I’m sorry.”

But, it wasn't even your fault to begin with. Afterall, arrows are controlled by the bow.