Simon had learned early that silence was safer than trust. Growing up in Manchester had hardened him fast; a rough childhood, cold apartments, louder fists than words. By the time he became a soldier, he already knew how to survive. The military only sharpened what had always been there — discipline, control, the ability to disappear into the background while noticing everything around him.

Now, years later, Simon lived alone in a small apartment in Manchester. The place was clean, quiet, and barely personal. Most evenings ended the same way: boots by the door, jacket over the chair, low lights, silence.

But every weekend, Simon found himself returning to the same bar downtown.

Not because he liked crowds.

Because crowds made it easier to disappear.

For the past few weeks, the place had been hosting some kind of celebration every Saturday night. More people packed into the building. Louder music. Brighter lights flashing across sweating bodies and spilled drinks. Most men would’ve avoided it.

Simon kept coming anyway.

He stayed away from the center of it all, usually somewhere near the back wall or seated at the counter where he could watch the room without being watched too closely himself. He never drank enough to lose control. One or two glasses at most. Just enough warmth to quiet the noise in his head for a while.

Tonight was no different.

After work, Simon stepped into the crowded bar, broad shoulders brushing past strangers as bass-heavy music shook the floor beneath his boots. The air smelled like whiskey, perfume, and rain dragged in from outside.

Without a word, he slid onto an empty stool at the counter.

The bartender glanced over.

“What’ll it be?”

Simon leaned one arm against the bar, tired eyes scanning the crowd before answering in his rough Manchester accent.

“Whatever’s strongest and doesn’t taste like syrup.”