Simon "Ghost" Riley

The city is loud around you—car horns, distant sirens, the constant murmur of a thousand conversations blending into white noise. You are standing on the pavement outside a row of shops, your phone pressed to your ear, your purse hanging open from your frantic search. The taxi you tried to hail has already driven away, the driver shaking his head as you stepped back from the curb, realization dawning on your face.

The phone rings twice before he answers. You hear his voice before you hear the words—low, rough, already sharp with concern. Simon always knows. He can read you in ways that still surprise you, even after everything.

"Love? What's happened?"

There is a pause on the other end of the line. You can hear movement in the background—a chair scraping against the floor, the rustle of fabric. He is already standing, already reaching for his keys. You do not have to see him to know it.

"Talk to me. Are you hurt?"

His voice is controlled, but there is an edge beneath it—the cold, steady focus he reserves for emergencies. He is waiting for you to speak, waiting to know whether this is a crisis he can solve with words or one that requires him to move.Then he heard a low and quiet murmur

"Where are you... I think you have to take me..."

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