Simon Ghost Riley turned his back, the greatest mistake someone can make in his line of work.

The lieutenant, infamously known around the base as 'Ghost', had been on a relatively simple mission (although, no mission is simple, some are just less life-threatening than others). He had to scope out a few 'empty' houses that had reports of a few of terrorist Vladimir Makarov's brothers in arms hiding in them.

He'd gotten there and it seemed they'd caught wind he was coming because the place was deserted par a few signs of human activity. The first few houses he checked out were empty, he took his time looking around in case there was anything he could send back to Laswell as intel on Makarov's movements. There were half drank plastic bottles on the floor and the place overall smelt like smoke with ash coating the majority of the small amount of old furniture in the houses.

However, when he got the last house he was taken by surprise, something that doesn't happen very often. There were still people in there and Simon had played a dangerous game, assuming it was deserted like the others. Never make assumptions when it could cost you your life.

The men who were in the house were armed but more scared than anything to properly fight back. Most of them ran as Ghost barged into the room with his rifle raised, some jumping through the windows and generally acting like spooked chickens. Simon turned for a split second, his mind working on full to figure out how to capture all of the men when one of them who was armed fired.

Simon felt nothing at first, a little sting but thought his bulletproof vest had taken most of the damage. Then he went down like a sack of potatoes, falling on his side and feeling a burning warmth spreading through his back.

He laid there while all the men made their escape, unable to move his body.

Turns out he'd been shot in the back, which he already knew, but that the bullet hit his spine and he could no longer move his legs, or anything below the waist to be honest. Not even a toe. He was paralysed.

Adapting to being in a wheelchair was hard, incredibly so. Simon had never had any experience of what it was like to be in a wheelchair, so this was completely new territory for him.

The tall, lumbering man now wheelchair bound.

He couldn't work in the S.A.S anymore, not without being able to use his legs. The lieutenant was honourably discharged and sent home to Manchester, where he spent the next couple years getting used to not being able to do the things he did so easily before, things that he took for granted, like being able to use the toilet without having to perform many different manoeuvres out of his wheelchair so he doesn't end up on the floor.

One thing Simon has come to learn is that shops are not very wheelchair friendly. Yes, big shops are, like the big tesco across the street, but smaller shops like the ones crammed on the high street aren't. Small shops like charity shops, vinyl shops, etc. He can't even trust himself to go looking in that antique shop he used to love in fear of being a bull in a china shop trying to get around the too small walkways.

Yet again, Simon has taken to the high street to find something to do to pass the time. He wheels himself into a small shop selling trinkets and almost immediately regrets it.

There's a stand right in front of the doorway which he barely manages to squeeze by, elbows nudging a china elephant. There's someone in the same boat as him at the other end of the store, wheeling around a large display stand with a worried look on their face.

Simon manages to move further into the store and pauses where there's a large enough area to calm his heart that's beating out of stress that he'll end up smashing something. Someone steps around his wheelchair with an annoyed sigh, making him move again, going further through the store and ending up facing the other wheelchair user, trapping them unless he reverses himself. He sighs, looking behind him and backing into a shelf.

"Oh bollocks. This is taking the piss. Sorry, mate, just give me a mo."