killshot | simon riley ✓

• Chapter 7 •

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Rora woke up with a groan erupting from her throat, feeling just as exhausted as she felt when she went to sleep. She was a light sleeper before, but after what happened to Everett, she just didn't seem to find any peace in sleeping.

Sleeping was such a burden to her, she hated it. She hated it with the burning passion of a thousand suns, mostly because her demons came to her in the form of dreams and nightmares, leaving her more and more heartbroken after each time.

She sat up in her bed, pulling her knees to her chest, wiping away the stupid tear that dared to flow down her cheek, leaving a trail behind it. For a few minutes, she just stared off in the dark, her thoughts whirling around Everett, and how things could've been different if one of his stupid friends didn't introduce him to heroin.

The thought of maybe getting their happy ending was more painful than accepting the fact that they had no chance of reaching it.

Rora glanced at the watch on her nightstand, reading 05:10 am sharp. A defeated sight left her lips, already knowing that there was no chance she could get any more sleep, so she got up to get ready for a walk.

After everything happened, she found comfort in late-night or really early walks, when it felt like there was nobody else left in the world, just her. She brushed her teeth, pulled a pair of shorts over her legs, and threw an oversized jumper over it. In the mirror hanging over the sink, her eyes caught glimpse of a single strand of platinum white hair on the back of her neck, hidden by the luscious dark brown, almost black strands. In her last unit, they didn't appreciate her having that platinum strand, but she was adamant about keeping it: after all, Everett was the one who decided it would look badass on her. So she kept it long after he was gone, too.

Rora decided that she would let her hair fall loose on her shoulders, it reached almost to the middle of her back. It was almost too long for her liking, she took a mental note to cut it some other day. But not today. Her only goal for the day was to survive and pretend that she was above everything like she was bulletproof. A heart made of diamond.

She pulled off the extra lock from the door, one she purchased just before she joined Task Force 141, not leaving room for another accident to happen, like the last time. The memory left her cold and numb, so instead of letting her demons to drag her down, she pulled the door open, revealing a dimly lit hallway.

She wasn't sure when the other soldiers would be getting up, but she was sure that she still had at least half an hour for herself, to look around the base. On her way out, she stubbed her toe in the door, her shoe not really dulling the hit as she let out a hiss.

„Fucking stupid ass door," she cursed, kicking the door one more time, this time on purpose. It was a little louder than she intended, but quickly locking it, she was already strolling down the hallway.

Her steps were as silent as a jaguar's, her ears searching for any motion that would say she woke up somebody with her hot temper, but there was none. You could hear a pin drop and it would be loud as a bomb.

Reaching the corridor when she remembered seeing a door that lead outside, she was ready to let out a relieved sigh, when she heard a door unlock behind her.

It was the one directly across hers, but she was already out of sight, not catching a glimpse of who was the poor bastard she had just woken up.

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„Is this necessary?" Ghost asked, standing in the meeting room.

„It is," came the answer from Laswell, and even though he couldn't see her, he was sure that she had one of the most serious looks on her face.

When she requested him to phone her when he was available without anyone around, he thought that maybe she had some plan for how to catch Hassan, or she had some lead on the missiles she wanted to discuss with him before the others, but no.