simon “ghost” riley

Simon was perplexed, which, in itself, was an odd feeling for him.

He wasn’t the type of person who found himself confused easily. In fact, when it came to handling tough situations, Simon prided himself on his ability to stay calm, methodical, and quick to act.

But there was a distinct difference between him and Ghost. While Ghost was always the one to devise a plan and execute it with precision—never wasting a moment or a word—Simon tended to take a more measured approach. Ghost, in his usual ruthless fashion, worked fast and efficiently, never lingering on doubt or hesitation. But Simon... well, Simon wasn’t one to act without considering every possible outcome. It wasn’t that he lacked the ability to make decisions quickly—it was just that he didn’t always know what to do in every situation. And this situation, standing in the middle of a crowded supermarket with a confused child clutching his jacket, was certainly one of those moments.

His mind raced, but his face remained stoic, hidden behind a surgical mask that was, frankly, a nuisance. Simon had never liked masks. They made it harder to breathe, harder to communicate, and they were just plain uncomfortable. But the alternative, wearing his balaclava, would have raised a host of other questions. No one in the middle of Manchester expected to see someone dressed like they were on a military mission. And while he didn’t mind raising eyebrows in certain contexts, he wasn’t about to make himself the center of attention in the middle of a supermarket. So, a mask it was. Not ideal, but tolerable.

He adjusted the mask for what felt like the hundredth time as he set a loaf of bread into his basket, making sure it didn’t crush the dry fruits he'd already tossed in there. The bread wasn’t necessary—it was just a convenient excuse to get out of the house, a small way to break the monotony. He could've just as easily sent someone else to do the shopping, but there was something about the mundane nature of it that appealed to him in that moment. Bread. Fruit. Small things that didn’t matter, not in the grand scheme of things.

But then there was a kid.

Simon hadn’t noticed at first, not until the little hand tugged at his jacket, pulling him from his thoughts. For a brief second, Simon considered brushing the child off. After all, kids were unpredictable, and he wasn’t exactly in the mood to babysit. But as he looked down at the child, his confusion deepened.

The kid couldn’t have been older than six or seven, but those eyes, wide and unsure, stared up at Simon, and for a moment, he wondered if he’d simply mistaken him for someone else.

After all, he was used to being the center of attention—he was, as he liked to think of himself, the most handsome man in all of Manchester. It wasn’t vanity; it was just a fact. He knew it every time he caught the eyes of passing strangers, especially the birdies who seemed to stare a little too long when he was buying bread or grabbing a coffee. Johnny, of course, argued with him on that point, always insisting that Simon’s self-assessment was more than a little inflated. But Simon didn’t care for the Scot opinions when it came to his looks.

The kid, however, wasn’t staring at him in that way. It was something different.

“Y’alright?” Simon muttered, instinctively glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was paying too much attention.

The supermarket was bustling with people, but none seemed to be focused on him or the child. It wasn’t exactly a prime location for someone to start a scene, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

The child didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he tugged at his jacket again, this time with more urgency. Simon’s hand hovered for a moment, caught between annoyance and the strange sense of responsibility that seemed to settle over him when he saw the child’s anxious expression. He sighed inwardly, wondering why he couldn’t just mind his business and finish his shopping like a normal person.

“Sorry... Need somethin'?” He asked, his voice softer this time, tinged with a kind of reluctant patience.

The kid nodded, his eyes flicking nervously around the store, clearly unsure of what to do. Simon had seen this kind of panic before. He'd been in enough situations where someone needed help, where someone was lost or scared, to know what it looked like. But this felt different, and it was not on the middle of some dangerous situation. The child wasn’t crying, wasn’t screaming or drawing attention to themselves. He was just... lost.

The child mumbled something, about a parent. Right, a parent. The kid got lost, man, he argued with himself.

Simon crouched down to the child's level, making sure not to loom over him in a way that might seem intimidating. He knew a thing or two.

"What’s she or he look like?" Simon asked, his tone soft, trying to coax some kind of description from the kid.

The child just stared at him for a long moment, his expression blank, as if he was unsure of how to explain. Simon tried not to sigh in frustration. Kids were vague by nature, but this was getting ridiculous.

“Well, alright then," Simon replied. "Stay close." He stood up and gestured toward the end of the aisle.

The last thing he wanted was for someone to think he had taken the child, especially dressed like he was, in a surgical mask and a black jacket, like some kind of crazed bloke.

But this could be easy, right?