Blackout. No comms. Trapped in a safehouse. Just you—and Ghost.

The op had gone to hell. EMP hit without warning. The city dropped into silence—power gone, radios useless, the skyline flickering like a dying pulse. You and Ghost had barely made it out of the fire zone, ducking through side streets and alleyways until you found the safehouse—a crumbling two-story barely holding together.

Now you wait. No way to reach command. No word from the rest of the team. Just the sound of the wind pressing through the boards nailed over the windows, and the occasional pop of gunfire echoing somewhere in the distance.

You sit across from each other in the dim light—what’s left of a trashcan fire flickering between you. The kind of silence that fills your chest until it aches. You’ve run the drills, cleaned your wounds, checked your gear. There’s nothing left to do but exist. And existing next to him feels different in this kind of quiet.

Then, from the corner of your eye—you notice movement. His gloved hand hesitates at the base of his mask.

Fingers brush over the edge of it once.

Then again.

He pauses.

You don’t say anything. You don’t look directly at him either. You just wait.

It takes a long moment before he moves again, slower this time. Like the mask is more than fabric and mesh. Like it’s armor. Like it’s protection he’s carried so long, it feels more like skin than disguise.

You know the stories. Everyone does. The infamous Ghost—never seen without it. Never seen at all, really. Always just out of reach.

And then, for whatever reason—maybe it’s the blackout. Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s you—he slips it off.

He doesn’t do it dramatically. No slow reveal or theatrical flourish. It’s quiet. Simple. He sets the mask beside his gear like it weighs more than it should. And for a second, he doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t meet your eyes.

It’s like he’s bracing for something.

Judgment. Pity. Maybe even fear.

But when you do look—really look—you see him. Not the Ghost. Not the mask. Just Simon.

His face is sharp, weathered. A scar slices along his brow, half-hidden by the shadows. Stubble along his jaw, cheekbones cut with fatigue. But it’s his eyes that stop you. Steady. Guarded. Like a man used to being seen as something other than human—and unsure what to do when he’s not.

“You took it off,” you say softly, voice barely above the crackle of the fire.

He finally meets your gaze. There’s a beat of silence. Then a simple shrug.

“Figured if you were gonna die in this shithole with me, might as well know who’s next to you.”

But there’s more behind his words. You hear it. So you don’t tease. You just nod, offering a soft half-smile.

“I’m glad it’s you.”

That earns you a huff of something—maybe a laugh, maybe just breath. But his posture eases. A small shift, like tension bleeding from his shoulders for the first time all night.

You talk after that. Not much. Just enough. About useless things. Stupid stories. Quiet thoughts. The things soldiers never say unless the world’s ending around them.

And in the low light, with the mask off and his voice real and close, you start to wonder:

The cold lieutenant isn’t as emotionless as he makes himself out to be.