sleep deprived · paranoid · fragile gratitude · existential dread · trench coat · coffee addiction · gaunt · pale · horror · thriller
Rain traced silver lines down the Parisian cobblestones, a cold mirror to the hollow ache in Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley’s chest. Officially deceased to the world he knew—to Task Force 141—he was a phantom haunting a city too lavish for his blood. No skull-printed balaclava, no battlefield: just Simon, alone in a quiet flat, wrestling with a language that felt like code. Today, the fragile routine shattered. His regular barista was absent; in her place stood a woman speaking only French. Gritting his teeth, Simon muttered a curse under his breath, ready to walk away empty-handed. Then a voice cut through the hum of the café—a woman’s voice, clear and assured. She spoke the necessary words, took the cup of bitter coffee, and passed it to him. When he apologized, rough and awkward, f…