Simon "Ghost" Riley

The bass thrummed through the thin walls of the terraced house, some generic dance track that made Simon's teeth ache. He stood in the kitchen, shoulders pressed against the cool plaster beside the refrigerator, one boot crossed over the other. The surgical mask sat tight across his face, a barrier between him and the stale air thick with cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, and the sour undertone of spilled lager.

Should've stayed home.

The thought was a familiar one, circling back every few minutes like a vulture. But home meant his father passed out in the armchair, the telly blaring shite until all hours, and Tommy skulking about with his mates, leaving Simon to stew in the silence of his own bedroom. At least here there was noise. Noise he could drown in, let it wash out the thoughts that clawed at him when things got too quiet.

He took a swig from the bottle of warm Carling in his hand. Piss-water. His father's voice echoed in his skull: Stop being so fuckin' picky, lad. It's free, isn't it?

Simon's jaw tightened beneath the mask. The day had been shite from the start. Woken at half five by the old man's coughing fit, then dragged to the butcher's shop to cover a shift for one of the other lads who'd called in sick. Eight hours of hacking through gristle and bone, the cold seeping into his joints, his father hovering over his shoulder with criticism sharp enough to cut. Too slow. Too rough. You're wastin' product. Then home to a cold dinner and the news that Tommy was dragging him to this party—some girl Tommy wanted to impress—and Simon, lacking the energy to argue, had let himself be pulled along.

Now Tommy had vanished into the throng of bodies, leaving Simon to guard the kitchen like some overgrown gargoyle.

His light brown eyes tracked the movement around him. A girl in a too-short skirt laughed too loudly at something a bloke in a trackie whispered in her ear. Two lads argued over football near the back door, fingers jabbing, voices rising. A couple groped each other against the washing machine, oblivious.

Animals. All of them.

He felt the familiar itch under his skin—the need to do something, to feel something other than this dull, simmering rage. His fingers flexed around the bottle. He'd already scared off one fresh-faced kid who'd tried to make small talk about the mask, stepping forward just enough to invade the lad's space, letting his height and bulk do the talking. The kid had stammered an excuse and bolted.

It hadn't been satisfying. Too easy.

Simon's gaze drifted toward the doorway, watching the flow of bodies, hunting for something—someone—to focus on. Someone who looked like they didn't belong, who was trying too hard, who'd give him more than a fleeting moment of amusement.

Then he spotted them.

His eyes narrowed slightly, tracking the figure as they moved through the crowded hallway. Different. That was the word. They carried themselves like they were apologizing for taking up space, and something about that made Simon's lip curl beneath the black fabric.

There you are.

He pushed off from the wall, setting his half-empty bottle on the counter with a deliberate clink. The crowd seemed to part around him as he moved—whether because of his size, the mask, or the cold energy rolling off him in waves, he didn't care. He just knew he'd found his entertainment for the evening.

Simon moved through the press of bodies with purpose, his heavy boots finding purchase on the sticky laminate floor. Someone's elbow caught his ribs—he ignored it, though he filed away the face for later, a dull throb of annoyance adding to the low-grade headache pulsing behind his eyes.

The hallway was narrower than the kitchen, choked with people who had nowhere better to be. Simon shouldered through without apology, feeling the satisfying give of someone stumbling behind him as he passed. A curse was hurled at his back; he didn't turn around.

He caught sight of them again near the foot of the stairs, and his stride slowed. Up close, he could see more—the details that marked them as an outsider in this sea of trackies and knock-off designer labels.

Simon stopped a few feet away, positioning himself so that anyone wanting to pass would have to squeeze around his broad frame. He crossed his arms over his chest, the fabric of his black hoodie pulling tight across his shoulders, and simply watched for a moment. Let them feel the weight of his attention.

The mask did half the work for him. People never knew what to make of it—whether he was hiding something, whether he was dangerous, whether he was just fucking strange. He enjoyed that uncertainty. The way it made people squirm.

"You look lost."

His voice was low, roughened by the smoke in the air and the exhaustion sitting heavy in his bones. The Manchester accent thickened the words. He didn't phrase it as a question. It was an observation, delivered flatly, his light brown eyes fixed on their face with an intensity that felt like a physical pressure.

"Let me guess—" He tilted his own head slightly, the mask shifting with the movement. "Someone dragged you here. Told you it'd be fun." The word dripped with contempt. "And now you're standing here like a spare prick at a wedding, hoping no one notices you want to leave."

He let that sit for a beat, studying their reaction with the same cold focus he'd give a cut of meat on the block.

"I notice."