Simon "Ghost" Riley oneshots

Dance of Death

Al Mazrah, Iran.

The very earth trembled beneath the barrage of mortars as the night sky lit up with flashes of fire and smoke. The once-serene village of Al Mazrah, now a graveyard of charred stone and splintered wood, was being torn apart. Bullets rained down like a vengeful storm, carving vicious wounds into the clay walls of modest homes. The cries of Al-Qatala soldiers echoed against the ruined buildings, sharp and panicked, drowned beneath the thunder of British SAS and American Marine rifles.

And amid that inferno of chaos, you sat motionless, hidden deep within the crumbling remains of your father's palace. The once-grand residence, now reduced to fractured marble columns and shattered glass, bore witness to your fall from grace. The only surviving child of General Ghorbrani, you were the last ember of a once-feared legacy. You were draped in a long, disheveled maxi dress, soaked with dust and ash, its hem torn and muddied from your desperate escape. A black chaadur clung loosely to your form, partially veiling your face from the world, but not from the pain that lived in your eyes.

Your beauty, though marred by grief, was unmistakable, a paragon of Iranian fire and elegance. Your golden eyes glinted in the low light, framed by wild, dark waves of hair that clung to your damp cheeks. You looked like a vision torn from a painting, graceful and shattered, fragile and defiant.

The sound of gunfire grew closer. The harsh stomp of combat boots reverberated through the palace's hollow halls. Foreign voices, English, American, echoed like phantoms, hunting ghosts of war. Your heart thundered in your chest as instinct overtook mourning. You weren't just a grieving daughter, you were a blade forged in ruin.

You crept toward the ruined doorway, shadows curling around you like smoke. In your hand, you clutched a curved dagger, its hilt slick with sweat. You crouched behind the broken frame of a doorway, your breath shallow, your fingers trembling yet steady with purpose.

And then, you saw him.

A tall figure emerged from the darkness, his silhouette a mass of menace and silence. Clad entirely in black, he moved like a phantom, his rifle sweeping through the room with cold efficiency. The dim light caught the glint of something bone-white, a skull mask, expressionless, haunting.

Your grip tightened. Time slowed. You lunged.

With a cry of fury and heartbreak, you surged forward, your dagger flashing toward his throat. But he was faster. A blur of motion, and before your blade could strike, his gloved hand closed around your delicate wrist, unyielding, firm. The pressure was enough to force you still, though not enough to hurt.

Your shawl slipped from your face as you stared up at him, breathless. Your golden eyes burned with defiance, and in that instant, time itself seemed to halt.

Behind the mask, his eyes, dark, deep, and unreadable, met yours.

Soldier and daughter. Ghost and fire.

The war outside faded into silence.

You stared into each other's souls, no words, no sound, only the thunder of your heart against the cage of your ribs. The dim light caught the golden fire in your eyes, clashing with the molten darkness of his. Something ancient and unspoken passed between you, rage, grief, recognition. His grip slackened for the briefest second, and you seized it. Your wrist twisted like silk in water, slipping free from his gloved hand. The dagger gleamed in your grasp as you extended your arm, the blade now aimed directly at his chest.

You began to circle him, slow and deliberate, like a predator gauging the strength of her prey. Your bare feet barely made a sound over the cold stone floor, your long hair flowing like ink with every motion. He watched you with predatory calm, his rifle slipping from his hand, clattering to the floor with finality. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the silence between you. In its place, he reached for his combat knife, drawing it free in one smooth motion, the steel catching the dying light.

You lunged again, this time with precision. He dodged, barely.

And so the dance began.

A deadly waltz spun from shadows and steel, the two of you weaving through the ruin like lovers locked in a tragic ballet. Your dagger cut through the air, slicing close to his throat. His body moved like smoke, agile and deadly, parrying each attack with graceful brutality. Your chest rose and fell with exertion, dress clinging to your form, dust and blood mixing along the hem.

He was silent, every motion calculated, his eyes never leaving yours. Your steps were swift, fluid, driven by fury and desperation, and yet something in your movements was beautiful, elegant even as you fought for your life.

You spun, the edge of your dagger grazing his shoulder, fabric tearing. He hissed, not in pain, but in something close to amusement. You pressed in, reckless and bold, your hair whipping against your flushed cheeks. But in one swift movement, his hand snapped out, catching your wrist mid-air.

Before you could react, his other arm slid around your waist, strong, unyielding, and pulled you against him, your bodies colliding with heat and force. His gloved hand splayed over the small of your back, holding you there, pressed to the hard wall of his chest. You gasped at the contact, your breath mingling with his, your dagger still poised between you.

Your golden eyes flicked up, wild and wide, but he didn't flinch. His gaze held yours like a spell. And then, suddenly, his blade moved.

A sharp sting bloomed at your side. His combat knife had slid into you.

You gasped, a sound torn from your throat-not just pain, but shock. Eyes fluttering, your fingers gripped his chest, legs trembling. He pulled the blade free with a slow, merciless precision. Again, your body jolted against his, a sharp cry escaping your lips as the second wave of pain crashed over you.

Your dagger dropped from your hand, clattering to the floor. Your head fell back, hair cascading behind you, lips parted, eyes heavy. He held you easily, as if you weighed nothing. One hand remained firm on your back while the other, now slick with your blood, lifted to your face, brushing your cheek in a gesture that was jarringly tender amidst the violence.

You blinked slowly, breath faltering, body weakening as your legs gave way.

He knelt, lowering you gently to the ground, his hand never leaving your skin. Your breathing was shallow, and his touch lingered, fingertips ghosting along your jaw, your lips, like he was memorizing a face he'd never forget.

No words spoken.

Only the silence of two warriors, bound by fate, drowning in a moment where death met desire, and neither dared look away.

And as the warmth bled from your body, pooling beneath you like spilled wine, you kept your eyes on him, fixed, unwavering. Every shallow breath burned your lungs, every beat of your fading heart echoed like a final drumroll inside your chest. But still, you looked at him. Into him.

The pain dulled, fading into a strange, distant thrum, and all that remained was the weight of his gaze. He hovered above you like a shadow stitched to your soul, the hollow skull mask looming, yet somehow his eyes, those dark, aching eyes, spoke louder than any voice could. There was no hatred in them now. No fear. Only something raw... something broken.

You studied him in those last moments, memorizing the shape of his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the flicker of something deep and dangerous beneath his calm. The man who had taken your life didn't look away. He let you look. Let you see him. Let you take him with you.

And you did.

You etched him into the depths of your soul with every heartbeat you had left. The lines of his face, the heat of his touch, the cold steel of his blade, the way he held you like he hadn't wanted to. Like he hadn't meant to.

Your lips parted to speak, but no sound came.

Just your gaze, locked with his, until the world dimmed and you surrendered to the quiet.

Still looking at him.

Still remembering.