I Feel It In My Bones (Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader)

A Bad Day: Part Two

A thousand thoughts swarmed your mind at once, though one chilling fact stood out the most: the intruder was armed.

You had to gain control of the situation quickly.

You reached into your thigh holster and your fingers tightened around the cold, smooth handle of the knife. Its blade glinting menacingly in the sunlight as you unsheathed. Your heart pounded so loud you were worried the intruder would be able to hear it.

Don't think. Just Act.

You sprung out from behind the desk.

Quicker than a blink, you closed the distance between you and the man. He was tall, far taller than you, and his dark clothing was not enough to conceal the rippling muscles beneath. The knife in your hand sliced through the air. The man's eyes widened in realisation, too late, as you slashed at his wrist.

With a cry, he released the gun, blood spilling from the wound and staining his clothes. Your swift strike had its intended effect. In one fluid motion, you kicked the weapon aside. It skittered across the carpet, coming to rest behind a potted plant near the desk.

Keep it clean, Laswell said.

A knife was a lot quieter than a handgun.

Blood was a lot easier to scrub out than brain matter.

With his free hand, the man aimed a brutal punch at your face. The impact sent you staggering, but you managed to counter with a swift knee to his midsection as you stumbled back. He wheezed for breath, caught off guard by your retaliation.

Suddenly, a powerful blow struck your ribcage, knocking you onto the desk. Plant pots and a monitor crashed to the floor with a muffled clang. Ceramic and glass shattered, littering the ground as your stomach collided with the solid pine surface.

Before you could think, you felt a vice-like grip around your hair, pulling your skull backwards in preparation to slam it against the desk. The pain was burning. In an act of panic and desperation, you swung your armed hand back, not truly aiming for anything. The man let out a wheeze as the blade made contact, slicing between his ribs. He let go of your hair, and as you retracted your knife, you tore yourself away from the desk.

His eyes met yours, a volatile mix of pain and rage fuelling his body as he lunged at you, attempting to wrestle the knife from your grasp. His hands wrapped tight around your wrist. Too tight.

Fuck, he's going to snap the bone.

As you moved to kick the man, to push him away, to prevent him from breaking your wrist altogether, your grip betrayed you, and the knife was yanked from your hand.

You barely managed to evade the blade as it sliced through the air towards your face, leaving a clean cut through the soft flesh of your cheek, the same one that had already been punched. Warm blood trickled from the wound. In the same fluid motion, you dropped down, reaching into your boot as swiftly as you could and retrieving your second knife.

As the man swung his leg up, aiming towards your back to deliver a hefty blow near your spine and throw you to the floor, you raised the second knife just in time.

It pierced his thigh as though it were butter.

It was a strange sensation—feeling the parting of flesh between your fingertips but not experiencing the pain. You felt the gentle crunch as the blade penetrated muscle and fat, witnessed the bubbling and spurting of blood. You saw the shock, realization, and horror in the man's eyes as he processed what had just happened.