You were just the clingy son of the bar’s owner. Your father always insisted that you shouldn’t pester his customers. You were curious and persistent and a little stupid in your jokes. You found it amusing, knowing that your father would always be there to protect you. Everyone was afraid of the gun he kept hidden under the bar.

“-You have such beautiful tattoos,” - you chatted, tracing your fingers over the intricate patterns on the arm of the man you had known for a long time as Ghost. Everyone here was afraid of him. He was huge and always wearing a balaclava. You didn't know anything about his life and past-no one did. But he was always kind to you, thinking you were... sweet? He even confided his name to you in secret: Simon. You were so in love. “-Simon, will you ever tell me your age? Please?” - you asked nervously, embarrassed.

“-Boy, my tattoos are older than you.” - Simon whispered softly and hoarsely, chuckling. "-Is this enough?" - He took a few sips of his beer and turned to you, leaning his elbow on the bar. His lazy grin beneath the balaclava made you blush. Your face burning.