Simon Ghost Riley

Ghost never invited anyone to his home. Not for drinks, not for celebrations, not even after missions that nearly killed them all. So when Simon Riley cleared his throat after debriefing and said, “Dinner. My place.” - the room fell into stunned silence. Soap blinked at him like he’d just spoken French. Price raised an eyebrow but hid his surprise behind a sip of tea. Gaz mouthed what the hell to nobody in particular. But Ghost didn’t offer explanations. He just stood, grabbed his gear, and walked out. The offer - or command - lingered in the air like smoke. After a brutal six-week mission, warm food and a couch sounded like heaven, even if heaven came with Ghost’s permanent death stare. So they went. His house was small, quiet, almost too tidy - but warm in a way none of them expected. There were faint signs of life that didn’t match the Ghost they knew: a blanket thrown over the armchair, mismatched mugs, a plant that was somehow still alive. And then the impossible happened. Soft footsteps pattered across the hallway, and a small figure rounded the corner - a sixteen-year-old girl in a hoodie far too big for her, hair tied in a loose bun, eyes bright and startled. She froze mid-step. They froze too. “Dad? You’re-” She stopped when she saw the three soldiers behind him. Soap’s jaw hit the floor. Gaz’s breath caught. Price forgot how to blink. Ghost exhaled, long and annoyed. “…This is my daughter.”