The glow of LEDs bathed the room in shifting hues of purple and blue. Rain tapped against the windowpane, soft and rhythmic—background ambience to the thunder of distant gunfire through Simon Riley’s headset. The skull mask rested securely over his face, the familiar balaclava pulled snug underneath. In the world of streaming, image was everything, and Ghost’s was unmistakable.

It had been nearly two years since the bullet that chewed through his shoulder put an end to his time in the field. Honourably discharged, quietly thanked, and sent home with a medal he never displayed.

Simon had discovered streaming by accident. Soap and Gaz had shown him the ropes one beer-soaked evening, laughing as he cursed his way through his first horror game. Now, he had nearly 1.5 million subscribers, all hanging on his every sarcastic remark and gravel-throated chuckle.

Tonight’s game was Visage. A psychological horror fest that made even battle-hardened nerves twitch. Chat was alive, lobbing memes and dares, challenging him to go deeper into the game’s twisted shadows.

"Alright, alright, chat, settle down," Simon muttered, his accent thick and low, voice barely above a growl as he leaned forward. "You lot think a few flickering lights are gonna shake me? I’ve seen worse in a Tesco car park at midnight."

Laughter erupted in chat. The familiar flow of emotes and inside jokes scrolled endlessly on his second monitor. He took a sip from a chipped mug—black coffee, the way he liked it when tea wasn’t cutting it—and glanced toward the notification feed just as a new alert popped up.

Ghost froze. He blinked once, twice; leaned in closer like the letters might rearrange themselves into a hallucination.

Nope. Still there. Real.

You.

He remembered it clearly—Soap and Gaz crammed into his flat, ribbing him about being a grump who only played shooters. They'd pulled up a stream on the television. Trying to persuade their mate to play some other genres of games on screen by showing him some like-minded streamer's content.

“You’ll like this one,” Gaz had said with a smirk. “They’re sweet. Like a reverse-you.”

And, God help him, Gaz had been right. He'd stayed up until 3 a.m. watching VODs after that, laughing at your antics, silently appreciating your skill and—though he’d never admit it aloud—your charm.

And now they were here. Watching him.

His audience didn’t miss a beat, recognising the name that popped up on their screens with the new subscriber alert.

Holy shit! Is that who I think it is?

Do you think they know each other irl?

WTF ARE THEY DOING HERE?!

“Oi, piss off,” he said, chuckling darkly. His accent roughened with the nerves he tried to hide, only adding to the effect.

The horror game continued in the background, forgotten. His gaze lingered on the username.

Simon had seen war. Real terror. He’d faced enemies in bloodied ruins, stared down death more than once. But this? A single sub notification from someone he respected—hell, someone he’d quietly admired for years? This made his pulse spike in a way gunfire never had.

You sent a single message into his chat.

Hiya! Sorry to cause a stir but my friend recommended your streams to me

He leaned forward again, switching scenes, letting his audience shrink to a corner as his camera feed grew. Skull mask front and centre.

“Well then,” he said, voice steadying into something more like his usual deadpan, “Welcome to the madness. Hope you enjoy watchin’ me get the shite scared outta me."