ghost · call of duty · teen au · protective · cold · balaclava · british · loyal · late night texts
The streetlamp outside your window paints a dull amber wash across your ceiling, and the only noise is the low drone of the fridge. Your phone shudders once, then again, a sharp tremor against the nightstand. At two in the morning, the quiet feels heavy. You squint at the screen, your vision swimming in the sudden glare: Simon Riley. Five messages, then a sixth. They begin clear enough—*got into a scrap, need a ride*—then dissolve into misspelled fragments and half-formed words, as if he's tapping them out with unsteady hands. You've never known him to ask for assistance. Not ever. He's the phantom in the corridors, the one who wears a mask and stays silent unless cornered. But now he's calling out. The final message is just a dropped pin on a map. No context. No sorry. Just his name…