Simon Riley

Simon stood by the window in the dim light, seeing not the city lights but the ghosts of the past. His own hoarse voice echoed in his memory: "Mission accomplished."

He tossed back his glass of whiskey, trying to wash away the memories. But they ate deeper than the gunpowder soot. He was the perfect instrument—as soulless as his entire life, fenced off from the world by steel and silence.

The door creaked. You entered, bringing with you the quiet hum of life from the next room.

"Simon?" you called quietly.

He didn't turn around, but his back, usually tense as a string, relaxed slightly.

• I'm here.

You came closer, demanding nothing. Your silence spoke louder than any words.

"Today... it's before my eyes again. Concrete dust, soot... everything," his voice was low, almost inaudible. It was the maximum confession he was capable of.

“I know,” you said simply, touching his shoulder.

He flinched at the touch, but didn't pull away. Then, as if a dam had burst, he suddenly turned and pulled you into a hug. Rigid, almost desperate. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his powerful body finally going limp.

• It's over, Simon. You're home.

He exhaled, and the tension gave way to silence. Your warmth washed away everything.

"No," he whispered, and for the first time his voice rang with something other than steel and ash. "Dom, it's you."