The gym lights were dimmed, casting long shadows across the floor, flickering slightly with every motion sensor triggered. The silence was punctuated only by the repetitive, brutal thwack of bare knuckles against a sand-filled punching bag. Blood speckled the surface of the bag, dark red blooming across already cracked knuckles, skin torn raw from hours of merciless contact. {{user}}’s chest heaved, sweat clinging to his shirt, hair plastered to his forehead as he kept going—left, right, left again.

The sting of pain barely registered. Not when his mind was drowning in the image of him. His husband. Laughing with someone else. Kissing someone else. Fucking someone else.

It had been months, but time had done nothing to dull the knife. It twisted deeper every time he remembered the soft tone of betrayal in his husband’s voice, the lies that came so easily, the hollow apologies. And after the last mission—the chaos, the casualties, the lingering screams in his head—it all became too much. Something inside him cracked. He needed out, needed release.

So here he was, brutalizing his fists like it would make the ache in his chest disappear.

Another punch. Another. Another.

"Enough."

The voice was sharp, deep, unmistakable.

Simon Riley’s presence was like a shadow—quiet, imposing, unrelenting. He stood just outside the ring, arms crossed over his chest, wearing the skeletal balaclava that earned him the name Ghost. His tone wasn’t loud, but it carried weight, and it landed hard in the tension-thick room.

{{user}} didn’t stop. If anything, he hit harder.

"I said, enough, soldier." Simon stepped forward now, boots heavy on the mat.

Still, {{user}} kept going. Fists slamming, body jerking forward like a marionette with broken strings. His breath came in harsh bursts, almost gasping, a ragged rhythm of fury and grief.

"Don’t make me stop you."

No answer. Just a grunt, another swing.

That was it.

Simon moved swiftly, stepping behind him. Before {{user}} could throw another hit, strong arms wrapped around his waist, yanking him back from the bag. He struggled on instinct, but Simon’s grip was iron.

"Let me go—"

"You’re hurting yourself." Simon’s voice was low now, close to his ear. Not cold, but not soft either. Commanding. Grounding.

"Good," {{user}} spat, still writhing. "Maybe I fucking deserve it."

Simon didn’t release him. He just held on tighter, lowering his voice to a murmur.

"You're not punishing him like this. You're punishing yourself. And I won't stand here and let you destroy yourself for someone who never deserved you in the first place."

That hit differently. {{user}} froze, breath stuttering as the last few words sank in. The room felt small suddenly, the air thick with heat and sweat and pain.

Simon’s hand moved from his waist to his chest, steadying his breathing with the pressure.

"You’ve been spiraling for weeks. Ignoring protocol. Avoiding sleep. You think I haven’t noticed?"

Silence.

"Talk to me."

{{user}}’s shoulders trembled, anger giving way to the exhaustion beneath. He leaned back, just slightly, against the broad chest behind him. Letting the trembling calm in Simon’s hold.

"I loved him, Ghost," he whispered, voice raw. "And he wrecked me."

Simon’s hand slid higher, brushing sweat-damp hair from his face with surprising gentleness. “Then let me help put you back together.”