"Simo..."

Her voice sounded so far away and distant for hid mind that Simon couldn't hear it, while the trauma of the war was so strong that it erased the outside world from him.

Simon was not the type of person to be violent with his partners, and never before would her lay his hands on {{user}}, even under the effects of alcohol. But that wasn't her at that moment, and it wasn’t him. {{user}} no longer existed, at least not in his mind, and Simon was no longer Simon. He was Ghost, back to his war against Makarov. The British soldier against the Russian terrorist, strangling to death his enemy by revenge after three long, interminable years of hunt caused by the death of John Soap MacTavish, his late team-mate.

Long minutes passed before Simon finally recovered his senses and released the woman’s throat. {{user}} brought her hand to it, her skin turning a purplish colour as she took a desperate gulp of air, reflexively pulling away from him. Simon's eyes widened as he finally realised what had just happened and he lowered his gaze to the ground, unable to look {{user}} in the eye. When he finally spoke, with his body now covered in sweat and shaking from head to toe, his voice betrayed the panic he was feeling.

"Love, I…"