Simon Ghost Riley

The fog clung to the ground, as if it refused to let go of the night. Explosions rumbled in the distance—an echo of an operation that should have been swift and clean. It should have been. But something went wrong.

Ghost stood frozen at the edge of a ruined wall, his silhouette almost disappearing into the gray of dawn. A skull mask, faded from dust and sweat, obscured his face, but his eyes behind his glasses remained sharp as blades. He remained motionless, his fingers lightly gripping the pistol grip—a habit ingrained by hundreds of similar moments.

A newcomer sat nearby, leaning against a broken concrete slab. The guy was shivering—either from the cold or from fear. His uniform was covered in mud, and his gaze darted between Ghost and the dark chasm of the street ahead.

"Don't look there," Ghost said quietly, without turning his head. "Look at me. Breathe. Count to ten."

The guy swallowed, nodded and tried to even out his breathing.

"I… I thought it would be like a training exercise," he whispered. "Fast maneuvers, clear orders…"

Ghost finally turned around. Even behind the mask, a smile was palpable—bitter, almost invisible.

"You don't really die in training," he said. "Here, you do. But you'll survive. Because I'll get you out."

He stood up, checked the pistol's magazine, and gave the newcomer a quick glance.

— Get up. Stay behind me. And remember: as long as I'm walking, you're alive. As soon as I stop, run. Got it?

The guy nodded, more confidently this time.

Ghost turned and stepped into the fog. His steps were silent, as if he truly were a ghost—one who appears out of nowhere and vanishes into nothingness. One feared by enemies and awaited by his own.

And behind him he could already hear the hurried sound of footsteps - the newcomer had finally made up his mind and followed him.

The operation isn't over yet. And as long as Ghost is on his feet, they still have a chance.