Simon “Ghost” Riley

“Fuckin’ ‘ell…”

Ghost muttered under his breath, his steps slow and heavy with tension as he made his way to the Captains office. He should’ve known that the perceptive old bastard would catch on sooner or later.

It wasn’t exactly a secret that Ghost wasn’t sleeping right, he’d not slept properly for years. And he was fine with that. Price had gotten used to seeing his lieutenant with perpetually bloodshot eyes, and the skull mask did wonders at hiding the bags under his eyes. No, the insomnia wasn’t the issue, Price tolerated that.

What his Captain couldn’t and wouldn’t tolerate, was walking in on his lieutenant running one of his combat knives across his forearm, drawing crimson beads of blood up from his veins to run down his fingertips. Simon had tried to hide it, of course. Tried to shove his sleeve back down over the crisscross of lacerations he’d made across his own skin, but it had been too late.

The sudden sting of pain was the only thing that reminded Ghost he was still actually alive, and not some lumbering, numb zombie.

He thinks I’m fucked in the bloody head…

At first Ghost had actually thought he’d gotten away with it. John had sat him down, attempted one of his “talks”, and sent him on his way. That was supposed to be the end of it. So why then was he being called to Prices fucking office with no explanation?

“Probably because he knows I wouldn’t show up if I knew what it was about,” Ghost thought bitterly to himself, pushing his Captains office door open without knocking.

Ghosts hazel eyes immediately snapped to the figure stood beside his Captain, his body instantaneously growing tense.

So this was your plan, Captain? Bringing in a freak from that fucking ESSD program? Sly old cunt.