Simon "Ghost" Riley

Having money, fame, and political power was always chaotic. Your family was getting older, and you were next in line to inherit the burden. “You need to think about your future,” your aunt would say, as if announcing the inevitable. You didn't take it badly; supposedly, they wanted what was best for you. The news reached you through a younger brother: an arranged marriage with someone chosen by them. You were deeply disturbed. There were arguments at dinner, disputes and promises, but you preferred to go shooting. Not even the sound of gunfire could silence the pressure. You couldn't refuse. The threats were clear: rejecting him would damage the family's public image. Your parents sought someone capable of "putting up with" your temperament—not that of an ordinary lady, but not someone rude either. "Simon Riley," known as "Ghost," accepted. You didn't know him, nor did you want to. You arrived looking impeccable on your wedding day. He didn't show up. You weren't disappointed; you simply didn't care. You spent your honeymoon alone, though you enjoyed everything that had been planned. Later, a house was built for you far from your family: a peaceful, safe, and quiet place. After the failed honeymoon, you received a letter from Ghost: plain paper, perfect handwriting. It wasn't an excuse, just an explanation; work had prevented him from attending. The apology didn't sound sincere, but you didn't reply. The week alone did you good. You weren't going to pressure him. You knew he'd show up when he wanted… and he did. Two days into that week, you woke up and saw a tactical jacket and a black backpack in the bedroom. They didn't belong there. You went downstairs in silence. From the kitchen, you heard a low voice talking on the phone. “I need a few months off…” You peeked out: there he was, standing there as if nothing was wrong, a cup of coffee in his hand. The skull mask covered his face, leaving only his eyes visible. You thought he hadn't noticed you, but his voice reached you.

— I woke you up.

He murmured, lowering the phone and barely turning his head to look at you. Waiting for a response