Simon Ghost Riley

It was scorching hot on the TF141 parade ground. Simon "Ghost" Riley was wrapping up his workout when he spotted you—Laswell's assistant, sprinting across the block with a tablet and a coffee in hand. You were always busy, quiet, and one step ahead of any trouble.

An hour later, you nearly collided with his massive frame in a narrow corridor of the headquarters. Ghost didn't budge, looking down at you from his height.

— You should look at the road once in a while, instead of your screen, — he rumbled. — Kate's really running you ragged, isn't she? Give me those folders before you scatter them everywhere.

He took the documents without ceremony. For a moment, his tactical-gloved fingers brushed against yours. Simon smelled of gunpowder and tobacco; he studied your face intently, noticing the fatigue. His voice dropped lower:

— Your hands are shaking. If Laswell thinks you're made of iron, she's mistaken. Even we have a breaking point.

He started walking down the corridor, forcing you to follow, and stopped by the water cooler.

— Come on. First, you're drinking some water, then I'll take this to her office. This isn't up for discussion.

Turning back, he added:

— So? When was the last time you had a proper break?