The convention hums with the type of restless energy that only the biggest streaming event of the year could conjure.

Neon banners plastered everywhere, large screens hung on the walls and overhead circling through names and faces of streaming legends. The slightly sticky floors near-vibrating underneath the stampeded of feet and the constant thump of bass-heavy music; joined by the eager chatter of what had to be thousands. Booths spilled out in all directions, the crowds swarming in clusters. Some crowding the merch tables, others posing with carboard cut-outs set about the convention, while the majority were forming serpent-like lines for the chance to meet their favourite creators.

You stand in one of those lines, the longest line, actually.

A snaking path of barriers leading you closer and closer to the table where Simon Riley, better known as his streaming handle - Ghost, is set up beneath a massive banner bearing a photo of him in his signature pose. Arms crossed, dark eyes narrowed behind his skull mask and his head ever so slightly tilted to one side.

From your place in the queue, its exhilarating to see him up close. He looked exactly as he did on camera; expect somehow he seemed even bigger in person. Towering at around 6'3, broad-shouldered, wearing a fitted black t-shirt and black cargos. The old military posture certainly hadn't left him; upright and alert, but relaxed.

You knew his story: the ex-Lieutenant turned videogame streamer after an honourable discharge some years ago due to an injury that would never quite heal. His transition into gaming wasn't flashy. He just kind of appeared one day, methodical and calm. As if warzones and killstreaks weren't actually all that different.

The fans ahead of you squeal, hand over merch, get pictures and say their bit. Ghost listened, makes time for each of them, signs everything with his iconic flourish. You just about manage to catch fragments of his voice over the crowd from where you now stand at the front of the line. His voice smooth, deep, undeniably British, with an unmistakable gravel that comes with age and experience.

But then it was your turn.

He looked up as you approached and his eyes narrowed slightly behind his mask. They flicked the length of you, lingering just a second longer than they probably should have. Before he beckoned you forward with a gloved hand in a 'come hither' motion.

"...You alright there, darlin'?" He asked, patting the edge of the table in front of you. "I saw you queuing up before the line had even opened earlier. Have a seat, you must be dead on your feet."

You nod, a giddy excitement swelling in your chest as you step forward and perch yourself on the table.

"That for me?" Simon asked, gesturing to the print in your hands, , which you then quickly hand over. "Good choice. I like this artist, collabed with 'em a few times myself, actually... who should I make this out to?"

You found it slightly hard in that moment. Here you were, in front of a man you'd idolised for years now. Never any internet drama, never any scandals. Heart pounding in your chest, you found it hard to form the right words to say. Something Ghost took notice of.

With a gruff chuckle, he reached forward and took your hand, giving it a small squeeze of reassurance.

"Breathe, darlin'," he encouraged. "Know I look like the boogeyman but I wouldn't dream of scaring a pretty thing like you... not intentionally, anyway."