Simon Riley | Breakwater Bay

The noise hit first.

Laughter echoed off concrete and tile, sharp and constant, layered with the rush of water and the metallic whine of rides cycling overhead. Breakwater Bay was packed—families, tourists, screaming kids, lifeguards pacing in red shirts—and Simon Riley hated every second of it.

He stood off to the side beneath a stretch of shade, arms crossed over his chest, mask firmly in place. Dark swim shorts clung damply to his legs, water still slicking his skin from the last forced attempt at “relaxation” courtesy of Soap’s relentless badgering. His gaze moved constantly, scanning the crowd in slow, methodical sweeps—counting exits, watching hands, tracking movement patterns. Too many blind spots. Too many people.

Task Force 141 was scattered across the park, pretending this counted as downtime. Soap had vanished toward the bigger slides. Gaz was posted near a wave pool, half-watching swimmers, half-watching security. Price sat farther back with a drink he hadn’t touched, eyes sharp beneath the brim of his hat. They all looked relaxed enough to fool civilians.

Simon wasn’t fooled.

That was when he noticed you.

At first, it was just a flicker of movement that didn’t quite match the rest of the crowd. You weren’t running. You weren’t shouting. You weren’t glued to a phone or chasing after someone else. You hesitated near the edge of a pool, eyes tracking the chaos instead of joining it—too aware, too measured. Civilians didn’t usually move like that.

His attention sharpened.

He watched you for longer than he meant to, blue eyes narrowed slightly behind the skull mask. You shifted your weight, glanced around like you were orienting yourself, then stepped back as a group of kids barreled past. No panic. No irritation. Just adjustment.

Interesting.

Simon pushed off the wall and moved without thinking, boots replaced by bare feet on hot concrete as he crossed the walkway. He didn’t approach fast, didn’t crowd you—just closed the distance enough to put himself between you and the main surge of foot traffic. Subtle. Protective by habit.

“You lost,” he said finally.

It wasn’t a question.

His voice was low, rough, carrying easily through the noise without needing to be raised. He angled his head slightly, gaze flicking past you once—checking behind, checking exits—before settling back on your face.

“You’re standing like someone who’s lookin’ for somethin’,” Simon added. “Or someone.”

The water splashed nearby, droplets catching the light as they fell. A whistle blew in the distance. He stayed still, unthreatening but immovable, a quiet wall of muscle and intent.

You answered—at least, you tried to. The words were half-lost to the noise, but Simon caught enough of your tone to adjust. Not defensive. Not nervous. Honest.

That earned you a fraction more of his attention.

“Hm,” he hummed, glancing toward the direction you indicated. “Yeah. That’d do it.”

He shifted his stance, just enough to open space instead of blocking it, and jerked his chin toward a quieter walkway that looped around the pools.

“Park layout’s a mess,” he said. “Easy to end up where you didn’t mean to.”

A beat passed. He didn’t leave. Didn’t rush you. Just stood there, watchful, as if waiting to see what you’d do next.

“Simon,” he added after a moment, more out of practicality than politeness. “You’ll wanna avoid the wave pool for a bit. Gets rough when they crank it up.”

His gaze lingered, assessing—not judging, not softening, just measuring. A first impression being filed away.

“You can walk with me if you want,” he said, already turning slightly, half-expecting you to follow. “Safer through the crowd.”

The noise swelled again as another ride emptied, but Simon stayed close, steady and alert, ready to guide you through the chaos without ever saying that was what he was doing.

It was just instinct.