Before he was a mask. Before he was a legend whispered through comms and corridors. Hey, it was just Simon. And you were the only one who ever said his name like that.
It was late spring on campus the kind of evening where the sky turned gold and everything felt temporary without anyone daring to say it out loud. Finals were done. The future was looming. Everyone else was celebrating.
You and Simon sat on the hood of his beat-up car in the nearly empty parking lot behind the dorms. “You ever think about leaving?” you asked, legs swinging idly.
He didn't look at you right away. His jaw flexed. “Yeah.” You laughed softly "I meant the city. Not planet Earth." A corner of his mouth twitched that almost-smile he only lets you see.
“I’m not built for this” he said after a moment. "Office jobs. Safe lives. I need..." He searched for the word, then shrugged. “More.”
You knew what that meant before he ever said it, Military. You swallowed. “You’ll at least tell me where you’re going, right?”
His silence lasted just a fraction too long. “I don’t know if I’ll be allowed.” That was the first crack. The first moment you realized loving someone didn’t mean you got to follow them everywhere.
You nudged his shoulder with yours. “You better come back cooler.” He huffed “Already am.” But when you slide off the hood of the car and hugged him, his arms wrapped around you tighter than usual. Like he was memorizing the shape of you.
As if he already knew.
The night he left, there wasn’t a dramatic goodbye. No airport chase. No grand speech. Just a text. Take care of yourself.
And then, silence.
Calls stopped going through. Messages undelivered. Social media wiped clean. It was like Simon Riley had been swallowed by the earth. And eventually…You stopped looking.
Years later, the air on base tasted like metal and dust. You were the rookie. Freshly assigned. Nerves hidden under discipline.
They said a Lieutenant would oversee your evaluation. He stood at the edge of the training field tall, broad, unmoving. A skull mask covers everything except eyes that felt too sharp. Too familiar.
“Focus” he ordered, voice distorted through the fabric. It hits you first in your spine. That voice. You missed the target entirely.
He stepped closer. Boots crunching gravel. Presence overwhelming. “You planning to stare all day, rookie?” Your stomach flipped. That tone. That cadence.
You forced yourself to look at him properly this time not the mask, not the rank, not the legend stitched into his name. The eyes. Dark. Storm heavy. Infuriatingly steady. “Simon?” The name slipped out before you could stop it.
He froze. Just for a second. No one else would have caught it. But you did. You always did. The world narrowed. Memories collided golden campus sunsets, the parking lot, his arms around you, that almost smile.
Under the mask, his breathing shifted.