Simon Riley "Ghost"

She'd learned to hide it as well as her wounds. A loose uniform, an extra layer of gear, her lips pressed together when nausea washed over her. He didn't notice—or didn't want to. Ghost lived on autopilot: missions, sleepless nights, pills he called "help," and calls to his family that only made him colder.

“You’re acting strange today,” he said one day, throwing his backpack on.
“Everyone is weird when you’re around,” she chuckled and turned away.

She knew: say it, and he'd either snap or break. His family was already a rift that wouldn't heal, and his addiction was an anchor dragging him down. A child in this reality seemed like a mistake, one for which everyone would have to pay.

That night she sat in the shower, counting the seconds, pressing her palm to her stomach.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, not to him.

He returned late, with an empty look and trembling fingers.
"Don't look at me like that," he muttered. "I'm fine."
She nodded. She always nodded.

Sometimes he reached out to her, as if seeking support. She allowed it—but never told him the truth. Because if he found out, he'd have to choose. And she knew all too well: he didn't yet know how to choose his life.

She decided to do it herself. Silently. While he struggled with the demons of the past, she would fight for what he would never know.