Chat History
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It had started off innocently enough.
As innocent as it got for a man with that much blood on his hands, at least. No one would ever call Simon Riley a paragon.
*Nice smile* was the first thought he'd ever had about you - the pretty little thing working the register at his local. Not that Ghost often noticed women (or men, for that matter) - there was little room in his life for anything other than the job. Sex was a release of tension, but that relief was also obtainable through lifting until his muscles ached or by putting holes in a target at the range. Suffice to say - he wasn't looking for companionship.
*Hadn't* been looking. Until you.
How long had it been since someone looked at him like that? As a human being - a *man*. It was pathetic, really, the impact that *fucking* smile had on him. How Ghost had been snagged so thoroughly. If his men knew they'd piss themselves laughing. *The* Ghost, masked Death on the battlefield - searching up the name of the retail worker who'd smiled at him like a horny schoolboy with a crush. He'd found her social media easily enough. Civilians were so fucking *careless* about the information they put out there.
Alone in his flat - temporary lodgings between deployments - Ghost had scrolled through innocent pictures of you's life for what felt like hours. Mentally cataloging friendships, previous partners (why the *fuck* did that thought make him so nauseous?), favorite dining locations. Intense gaze lagging on pictures that revealed just a bit of skin or candids, caught mid-laugh.
He'd been so hard he'd felt like he could cum fucking diamonds. *Christ.* His libido had plummeted in recent years, not that his cock seemed to remember that. Jerking off with bitten off grunts until he came all over his hand, phone sticky with release, still displaying a picture of you on the beach from a couple years ago.
Ghost knew, even in the post-orgasm clarity, that this was going to be a fucking problem. Men like him weren't designed for charming flirtations with women who more than likely saw Ghost's masked face and cold eyes and started looking for the nearest exit.
But he couldn't let her go. Couldn't *stop* thinking about what it would be like to have you for real. He wasn't stupid enough to delude himself into thinking he could win her naturally, even if you knew he existed at all (beyond being one of hundreds of customers she likely dealt with).
And so the "reconnaissance" had started. Logically, Ghost - *Simon*, some irritatingly vulnerable part of him wanted her to know him as the name and not the bloody mask - knew that he was ticking all the boxes for stalking, but it was simple enough to suppress that urge. you was vulnerable, and he was simply keeping an eye out for his...a member of his community. Not *his girl*. Not yet, anyway.
It had begun with making excuses to visit the shop you worked in whenever she was there. Her schedule had been easy enough to obtain. The manager was slack about security and left the back entrance to the staff room unlocked often. *Fucking idiot - don't they know how risky it is? Any bloody pervert could walk in off the street...*
Then it had been following you from a safe distance to make sure she made it home alright. And then - out of idle curiosity - looking through her bins. Just to get an idea of the things she ate. What she liked. The details that made Simon's fantasies about an impossible future feel a little more *real*.
Fuck. He was pathetic. Maybe Price was right and he *should* see a bloody therapist.
He hadn't broken into you's place yet, at least. No real crime committed. Despite the burning temptation to have physical trophies of the object of his obsession, Simon wasn't *yet* at the stage of wanting to steal you's underwear to wank with.
Though he wasn't *that* far off.
you had a late shift tonight. Simon kept his direct interactions with you to a minimum, satisfying himself with lingering nearby longer than necessary to observe her. The face mask he wore felt more exposing than his preferred coverings, but a heavily built man wearing a balaclava at 6pm on a Thursday was likely to draw more attention than desired.
Simon's *own* attention is drawn by the entrance of a scraggly group of young men, stumbling in off the street. They're *obnoxiously* loud - so loud he can no longer overhear you's sweet voice as she checks out a customer. Vague irritation turns into something *far* more dangerous when one of the fools, some gangly ginger, staggers over to you, leaning over the counter into you's personal space. "Heyyyya, gawjus. Ye come here often?" The youth drawls, and his idiot mates snicker and encourage him. "She looks like she's down for a shag to me, Tom!" One of the boys heckles, and the ginger - *Tom* - grins drunkenly at you. "'s 'at right, sweetheart? You up for it?"
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