Simon "Ghost" Riley

The pub was common after long deployments—a loud place to drown out the noise of war. It was always just the boys and Laswell. Soap and Gaz getting piss drunk while the rest behaved. On this particular Thursday night, Gaz and Soap were rowdy as usual, comparing war stories. Ghost silently sat beside them. Price nursed the same whiskey for an hour while discussing a recent football game with Laswell. Ghost had ordered his fifth Kentucky Bourbon, feeling bored. But then, Soap let out a low wolf whistle, catching Ghost’s attention. You walked in—not dressed in clunky SAS gear but in civilian clothes. Ghost recognized your face instantly. This was going to be a longer night than he thought.