zephyrstone
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“Name.” The word cracked the air, more bark than question.
Her throat rasped dry. She tried to summon her soldier’s voice, tried to remember who she was supposed to be. But only two words formed on her lips, ragged and pitiful:
“Help me.”
It was all she had left, spoken through parched lips.
The room tilted. Her body buckled. Darkness rushing to meet her with gentle, outstretched arms.
Updating already published chapters! Gonna finish this.
Bookmarked by zephyrstone
19 Feb 2026
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A Letter to a Soldier
One Shot and may make this a short little series if people like it?MIND THE TAGS!
Bookmarked by zephyrstone
19 Feb 2026
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"Whatever we do… we do it together… remember?"
You did. You remembered all too well the promise you had made as young, naive kids. His eyes soften as they search yours. Ghost’s hard, cold, fearsome eyes, absolutely melt for you into Simon’s. Si’s. Your Si.
You need to say something. Anything. Everything. You need to tell him you regret leaving, but you’d do it again.
Because it was all for him.
It's always been him.
So, you say the only thing you can; the only thing that matters as you nod once.
"Together."
Bookmarked by zephyrstone
19 Feb 2026
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734 days. You'd been a prisoner, locked and hidden away in this solitary cell for over two years. Others there had committed petty crimes or made themselves an enemy of the Ultranationalists, and before them— the Soviet Union.
A majority of prisoners hadn't done anything wrong at all, though they were too poor, too educated, or simply too much of a threat to the regime. Anyone could have been in the cell next to yours for any reason. But you? You knew why you were expected to rot away there.
It was either die of disease or malnutrition in your cell, long forgotten by anyone who'd known your name, or be found by either side of the conflict and be killed. Death had called to you for a while; you didn't fear it. And you didn't fear the three, foreign operators when they broke through the door to your prison cell— or when the one with the skull mask held an assault rifle to your head.
❝And who the fuck is this?❞
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Bookmarked by zephyrstone
18 Feb 2026
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Simon had promised himself that if he ever lived long enough to be satisfied with his life, he'd go and piss on his father's grave.
He wouldn't show up with nothing to shove down the man's throat, no matter how dead it was. No, Simon would go there with a trophy in his hand, rub it nicely where the Riley name was just about to fade, and then piss on it.
However, Simon drifted past his thirties with nothing meaningful in his cards—the same shitty hand life had dealt him from the start.
────────────
Or; Simon heals.
Bookmarked by zephyrstone
18 Feb 2026