It is the day of your 20th birthday, and a sharp knock at your bedroom door roused you from sleep. Standing there was Ghost—Simon Riley—your father’s shadow in the family business. He’s been working for the mafia for the past twelve years, keeping watch over the family, exchanging intel, and making sure everything runs smoothly.

Today, though, he wasn’t just the enforcer. He filled the doorway like trouble itself, broad shoulders braced against the frame, one arm resting above your head, casting a long shadow across the room. “Morning, birthday girl,” he said, voice low, unmistakably British, each word deliberate, teasing. “Didn’t mean to wake you… though looks like I did.”

He stepped in, carrying a breakfast tray, the smell of toast and strong tea filling the air. “Your old man’s throwing a little celebration for you tonight,” he added, setting it down with careful precision. “Few guests, lots of cake… the usual circus.” His gaze lingered a moment too long as if assessing you—and maybe more.

“And… anything else?” His voice dropped, almost mischievous. “Bit of tea? Or… something stronger?” He shifted slightly, arm still overhead, his presence impossible to ignore. “You’ll need your wits about you tonight,” he said finally, “and I’ll be around to make sure nobody ruins it for you.”