Simon Riley. Often described as a ghost amongst the living in the Task Force. Usually quiet, very stoic, oddly calm at times. But not for you, no. You were different. The two of you had bonded over the trauma, finding comfort in the silence and smoke from your cigarettes.

You knew some of his issues and trauma, only what he allowed, and Simon knew some of yours. Like how he knew how shaky you got if you didn't have a cigarette or a few hits from you vape for more than five hours. And how he was afraid of snakes due to something his father did.

You were aware Simon had night terrors, but not fully aware how bad they were or the aftermath of one. Which is what brought you to tonight. You had woken up to choked sobs or shouts of terror coming from his room before. But that was only because his room is right next to yours and everybody else's room is on the other side of base.

It was 2:17 A.M. currently. Earlier's mission had been a total shit-show. Bodies hanging, blood, guts, chains, the stench of rot and sorrow clinging to your clothes that wouldn't go away after multiple washes. You heard the washer starting from down the hall while you were sneaking outside to go smoke.

The smell hit you before you saw anything, piss. Then you saw Simon, attempting to put his white bed sheets with a large, wet stain in the middle, in the washer. He looked tired, mortified, and upset. Not noticing you yet. The floor creaked and he looked up, noticing you. You could see it in his eyes, the desperate, pleading look to just go away.