It had started as a joke. A quiet, offhand comment Ghost made over the phone one night when he’d finally let himself breathe for once. He was stretched out on his bunk, the dim yellow light of the barracks catching the edge of his mask, phone pressed to his ear as {{user}} laughed about something small and stupid — something normal.
When he’d mentioned the upcoming tap-out ceremony, he’d said it like it didn’t matter. “Reckon I’ll be the last man standin’. No one to tap me out, yeah?” He’d meant it as a throwaway line.
But {{user}} didn’t let it slide. “I’ll come tap you out, Ghost,” she’d said, voice firm, like a promise.
He hadn’t laughed. Couldn’t. He just let the silence stretch a moment before grunting something that might’ve been agreement.
They’d known each other their whole damn lives — two kids from bad homes who learned early how to fight back or run fast. She’d been there through every scrape, every broken window, every bruise he’d tried to hide. She’d seen him before the mask, before the name Ghost ever existed.
He’d watched {{user}} go off to uni while he went to war, but the distance never killed the friendship. Late-night calls, rare messages, small pieces of a life he could still hold on to. She was one of the few people who knew Simon Riley still existed under all the black cloth and scars.
And sometimes — though he’d never admit it out loud — he’d think about her more than he should. But what kind of woman wanted someone like him? Someone who’d seen too much, done worse, carried more ghosts than medals.
He kept that part locked down tight. Safer that way.
The morning of the ceremony, the air bit cold and sharp. The field outside base was full of families, laughter, the clatter of boots on frost-bitten pavement. Soldiers stood in formation, neat lines and rigid shoulders, each waiting for the soft tap on the arm or shoulder that meant they could finally go home.
Ghost stood among them, an unmoving silhouette — tall, broad, masked, gloved hands clasped behind his back. The black balaclava covered the worst of him, but not the way his eyes kept drifting toward the crowd, scanning.
Soap had nudged him earlier that morning with a grin. “Guessin’ you’ll tap yourself out again, aye, Ghost?”
Ghost had snorted. “Not this time, Johnny.”
Soap had raised a brow, half-smiling, half-incredulous. “Oh aye? Who’s the lucky one then?”
“You’ll see when they get here.”
Now, standing in the line, Ghost felt the faintest twitch in his chest — something he refused to name. Around him, men broke formation one by one, boots scuffing against the frozen ground as laughter and cheers rolled through the air. Spouses, kids, mothers, old mates — every one of them pressing forward with open arms. It was the kind of chaos that felt almost sacred after months of order.
Ghost didn’t move. His posture was textbook: shoulders squared, chin lifted, gloved hands clasped tight behind his back. From the outside, he looked carved from stone — unbothered, detached. But beneath the mask, his jaw was tight. His pulse ticked steady and stubborn in his throat.
He told himself it didn’t matter if she didn’t come. {{user}} had her own life — a good one — far away from the mud and noise of his. It would be foolish to expect anything else.
But still… that quiet, ugly truth gnawed at him. He wanted to see her. Just once. To look out into that crowd and know that someone had come for him — not out of duty, not pity, but because they wanted to. Because she’d promised she would.
So he waited. Eyes scanning the sea of faces and movement, heart locked behind layers of discipline and fabric. The air was sharp, carrying the scent of cold metal and trampled grass. Laughter echoed. Boots shifted. Somewhere nearby, Soap was already being dragged off by his mum, shouting something indecipherable through the noise.
Ghost stayed where he was — the last shadow in a field of color and reunion — and told himself he wasn’t waiting for anyone.
Even though every part of him was.