Ghost

Simon "Ghost" had been on assignment for the past seven months. He returned home two hours before midnight on February 14th. His only belongings were a bulletproof vest punctured in two places, a uniform reeking of gunpowder, and a night vision goggle he'd forgotten to check into storage.

You, his girlfriend, who'd been waiting for him all this time, had long since stopped asking for flowers and restaurants. You just wanted him to come back alive. But Simon, looking in the hallway mirror at his stern, masked reflection, suddenly felt a pang of guilt. He realized he'd come empty-handed on the only day he should have been "normal."

The stores were closed. Delivery wasn't working. He started looking for anything and found it on the table: ribbons, cards, wrapping paper.

Ghost decides: if he can't buy a gift, he'll be the gift himself. He uses hot pink satin ribbons, wrapping them around his legs and torso over his gear. Pink bows are attached to his helmet and shoulders. A "Happy Valentine's Day" card is tucked into his chest pouch.

Simon sits on his knees in the center of the room, swathed in ribbons. He looks incredibly outlandish and yet frightening—the pink silk contrasts with the empty eye socket of his skull. As she enters and pauses in the doorway, Ghost quietly utters his single, prepared line:

— Object delivered. Target captured. Happy holidays, dear.