Ghost (Simon Riley x y/n) ANGST
Content Contains. Angst, Hurt No Comfort, neglect, y/n has a heart condition, ignored, death, guilt, regret, SUPER ANGSTY
No one ever said it out loud, but y/n could feel it.
She felt it in the way conversations dipped the second she entered the room—voices lowering, sentences trailing off like she wasn’t meant to hear them. She felt it in the way orders were repeated to her twice, slower, clipped, as if expecting her to mess them up the first time. In the way shoulders sagged when her name appeared on the squad list.
No one said we don’t want you here.
Every morning started the same. She sat on the edge of her bunk longer than necessary, letting the dizziness pass before standing. One hand braced against the wall. A slow breath in. Another out. The tightness in her chest pulsed faintly—familiar, unwelcome.
She geared up carefully, movements practiced, fingers just a little slower than everyone else’s. She checked her weapon twice. Then a third time, just in case. If she made no mistakes, maybe they’d stop looking at her like one.
Just keep going, she told herself.
Because quitting wasn’t an option. Quitting meant proving them right.
Simon Riley barely acknowledged her most days. When he did, it was sharp, impatient—never neutral.
“Keep up,” he snapped during drills, not even turning around.
“You lag again, you’re dead weight,” another time, said without emotion.
She swallowed every word. Let them settle heavy in her chest. She nodded because nodding was easier than explaining, and explaining never helped anyway.
No one knew about the heart condition.
The medical files were locked away—buried under clearance codes and her own insistence that she was fine. She didn’t want accommodations. Didn’t want pity. She just wanted to belong, to be useful, to not be the problem everyone whispered about.
The mountain mission started wrong and only got worse.
The cave entrance was narrow, jagged rock scraping against their gear as they moved in. The air inside was thin, dusty, heavy in her lungs. Alarms began to blare the moment the charges were armed, sharp and relentless, echoing through the stone.
“Move out!” someone ordered.
They surged forward immediately.
Her boots slipped on loose gravel as she forced her legs to keep pace. Each step sent a dull ache through her chest. Her breathing turned shallow, uneven. She focused on the back of the person in front of her, on not falling behind.
The countdown echoed through the cave.
Her vision blurred at the edges.
“Move, y/n!” someone shouted, irritation cutting through the noise.
“I am,” she said, though it came out quieter than she meant it to.
Her legs burned. Her heart felt wrong—unsteady, like it couldn’t decide on a rhythm. She stumbled once, caught herself against the wall, fingers scraping rock.
She pushed. She really did.
By the time she reached the exit, her lungs felt empty. The cave shook as debris began to fall, dust choking the air. A hand grabbed the back of her vest, yanking her forward hard enough to knock the breath from her.
They burst out into the open just as the cave collapsed behind them.
For a moment, there was only ringing silence.
Then the shouting started.
“What the hell was that?”
“You almost screwed the whole op!”
“Do you know how close that was?”
She stood there, bent slightly forward, hands on her knees, trying not to sway. Every word hit harder than the last.
Simon’s voice cut through everything else.
“You slow us down again,” he said coldly, each word deliberate, “and you don’t come back out.”
Back on the ship, he didn’t lower his voice. He didn’t wait until they were alone.
“You embarrassed the entire squad,” Simon said, standing over her while the crew lingered nearby, pretending not to listen. “You froze. You panicked.”
“I didn’t—” Her voice cracked before she could stop it. “I was trying. I couldn’t breathe, I—”
His hands were shaking. She noticed that. Not with anger—something tighter, sharper beneath it. Instinctively, without thinking, she reached out just slightly, fingers brushing the air near his arm.
The word landed heavier than all the shouting combined.
She froze, eyes wide for half a second, then nodded again—quick, automatic. She stepped back, turned, and walked to the far end of the ship where the lights were dimmer and no one would look at her.
That night, laughter filled the corridors.
Music played. Someone cheered. A victory party.
She sat alone on the floor of her bunk area, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around herself like that might hold her together. Tears slipped down silently, one after another, soaking into the fabric of her sleeves.
Her chest hurt—worse than usual. A deep, aching pressure that made it hard to draw a full breath. She pressed a fist there, biting down on her lip, willing it to ease.
She covered her mouth immediately, shoulders tensing, eyes darting to the door. She stared at her hand afterward for just a second—long enough for panic to flash sharp and cold through her.
She wiped it away quickly. No evidence. No weakness.
A voice crackled over the comms.
Hope flared despite herself. Small. Fragile.
Maybe they wanted to talk. Maybe she could explain. Maybe everything would finally be okay.
She walked into the common area to the sound of laughter and clinking bottles—and was handed a stack of cleaning supplies.
“Party made a mess,” someone said, already turning away. “Take care of it.”
No explanation. No thanks.
She wiped spilled drinks from tables while people talked over her. Picked up discarded gear. Scrubbed floors as boots stepped around her, careful not to acknowledge her presence.
Someone laughed nearby. Someone else nearly knocked the bucket over and didn’t apologize.
She looked up—just for a moment.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even slow down.
And y/n kept cleaning, hands trembling, chest aching in quiet, unseen ways—because being hated hurt, but being invisible hurt worse.
And she wondered, not for the first time, how much more she could give before there was nothing left.
After that night, y/n stopped trying to explain herself.
She stopped correcting people when they called her useless.
Stopped reacting when someone sighed at her presence.
Stopped flinching when Simon spoke sharply—because she expected it now.
Instead, she worked harder.
She became Simon’s quiet shadow.
She organized his gear before briefings. Double-checked his loadout. Stayed behind after missions to clean weapons, file reports, restock med kits—anything that might make her worth keeping around.
“Didn’t ask for this,” Simon muttered once when he noticed.
“I know,” she said softly. “I just wanted to help.”
During missions, she forced herself to move faster, even when her chest tightened and her vision dimmed. She bit back every sign of weakness, every tremor in her hands.
Don’t give them a reason.
When she stumbled once, Simon didn’t even look back.
“Get up,” he said. “We’re not stopping for you.”
“I will,” she whispered, pushing herself upright despite the warning pounding in her chest.
At base, the comments never stopped.
“Why does Ghost even tolerate her?”
“She’s still here? Thought she’d wash out.”
“She’s dead weight with a clipboard.”
She overheard it all. She never responded.
Late one night, she collapsed into a chair in the empty med bay, breathing uneven. She stared at the medical scanner on the wall—at the files she’d locked away herself.
Instead, she stood back up and went to finish Simon’s paperwork.
The final mission was supposed to be simple. Recon. No heavy combat.
She volunteered to stay close to Simon, relaying information, managing comms.
“You’ll slow me down,” he said.
“I won’t,” she promised. “I swear.”
Halfway through, her steps faltered. The familiar pressure returned—stronger now, sharper. She pressed a hand to her chest for just a second when no one was looking.
“What are you doing?” he snapped. “Move.”
“I am,” she said, forcing herself forward.
They completed the mission. Barely.
Back on the ship, she finished her tasks quietly, face pale, movements slower than usual. Someone bumped into her.
“Watch it,” they scoffed. “God, you’re always in the way.”
She murmured an apology that no one heard.
She made it to the hallway outside the briefing room before her legs finally gave out.
There was no dramatic collapse. No alarm.
When Simon found her later, she was slumped against the wall, files still clutched in her hands. At first, he was annoyed.
“Get up,” he said sharply. “Briefing’s—”
Then he noticed she wasn’t responding.
Her name sounded wrong in his mouth when he said it again.
Medical confirmed it quietly. Too quietly.
A congenital heart condition. Undisclosed. Worsened by stress, exertion, neglect.
The words didn’t register at first.
“She never said anything,” someone muttered.
Simon stared at the report.
“She tried,” the medic replied. “She just didn’t think she was allowed to.”
The ship felt different after that.
Her bunk was cleared. Her name removed from the roster. Her work—her extra work—was suddenly obvious.
The mistakes she quietly fixed before anyone noticed.
Simon stood alone in the armory one night, staring at his loadout.
Everything was in perfect order.
Just like she always left it.
The memories came uninvited.
He remembered the way she nodded every time.
The way she never argued.
The way she kept trying anyway.
At the next briefing, someone joked lightly, “Guess things’ll run smoother now.”
Simon slammed his hand down on the table.
He didn’t explain. He didn’t need to.
Later, alone, he found a folded note tucked into his gear case. Her handwriting was small, careful.
I’m sorry if I ever slowed you down.
I just wanted to be useful.
Simon stood there for a long time, the weight of it crushing his chest in a way armor never had.
Until her heart couldn’t anymore.
And only when she was gone did anyone realize
She was never the weakest one on the team.
She was just the one who suffered quietly.
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