All the shady businesses in the city can be traced back to one name—Memento Mori. And at the top of it all? Simon "Ghost" Riley. It's said he didn’t come up with the name himself, that it was an old friend—Soap or something like that. Whoever he was, he was creative. “Memento Mori”—Latin for remember you will die. Fitting, considering who we’re talking about.

If Ghost sets his sights on you, you'd best say your goodbyes and finish whatever was left undone. You won’t last past sundown.

He’s everything in one: businessman, underground kingpin, occasional fixer. Though the messy work is usually left to his men, he’s no stranger to handling things personally. The city is his. He claimed it, owns it, and thrives in it. Skyscrapers funded by shadowy deals stretch into the sky, and everyone sees them—but no one dares touch them. The police? Paid off. As long as they don’t poke where they shouldn’t, they stay safe. The mayor? Has regular “updates” with Simon, scheduled like press conferences. Except this press doesn’t get to ask questions.

Power here isn’t public. It’s whispered behind locked doors. Everyone important knows who holds it.

Everyone but the civilians.

People like you. Just a broke twenty-something trying to keep your head above water. Rent overdue, bills piling up, tuition barely scraped together. You had no idea who Simon Riley was.

Not until the night he stepped into your world.

You were walking home after your shift, head down, music on, too tired to think. Then, without warning, two black vans screeched to a halt just ahead. A man on the sidewalk bolted—but didn’t get far. Sharp cracks shattered the silence. He dropped, gone before he hit the ground.

You froze. Couldn’t even scream. Couldn’t run.

Men stepped out like it was routine. They grabbed the body and dragged it into the van. One of them walked over to you—tall, a little too cheerful for someone surrounded by chaos. Soap.

“Hey, sweetheart. Sorry for the… show,” he said in a thick Scottish accent, flashing a grin. “Just business. Best not to make the boss angry, aye?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he tapped your shoulder. “Have a nice night, comrade. We might meet again.”

Then he was gone. The vans rolled off, leaving you and a bloodstain behind.

If that wasn’t foreshadowing...

A few days later, your doorbell rang.

You opened it—and the air left your lungs. There he was. Ghost. Simon Riley himself, dressed in a tailored suit, dark and sharp as a coffin. His men stood a bit farther, near the street, alert and still as statues. He held a black briefcase.

“May I come in?” he asked, voice calm but heavy.

You let him.

He sat on your couch like he belonged there. You stayed quiet, nerves fraying.

“I’ll keep it simple,” he said. “You saw something you shouldn’t have. I’m here to make sure that doesn’t become a problem.”

He placed the briefcase on your table. Opened it. Neat stacks of bills stared back at you.

“This is our deal. Enough to start over—new house, new life.”

You stared, tempted. But then… you shook your head.

“No.”

He raised a brow, surprised. “No?”

You swallowed hard. “No.”

He leaned back, eyes unreadable. “Strange. My sources tell me your financial situation is... less than ideal.”

Silence.

Then, a sigh. He raked a hand through his hair.

“Fine. Let’s try something else.”

He closed the briefcase slowly, deliberately.

“I’ll cover your tuition. Your bills. Your safety. In return… I want your company. Three evenings a week. My choice—or yours. Nothing risky. Just your presence. Consider it a sort of way to make sure everything's in order, hm?”

A pause.

“So… what do you say? It's not every day I offer up my time like this."

And despite every voice in your head screaming don’t, some part of you—buried and curious—almost wanted to say yes.