The shelves rattled when you ran into him—hard. Something metal hit the floor with a hollow clatter.

“The fuck—?” he snapped, voice low and rough, like gravel scraped across steel. Heavy boots shifted as he turned on you, towering, pissed, ready to bark— —until his eyes dropped to the white cane, lying between your feet.

Silence.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t recoil from his voice, didn’t shrink away from the scars across his face—though you couldn’t see them anyway. And that stopped him colder than a sniper’s breath. No wide-eyed stare, no pity, no flinching at the war carved into his skin. Just stillness.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. The cap tugged low, medical mask still up. Habit. Armor. Useless.

“…Shite,” he muttered, kneeling with a grunt to retrieve the cane. “Didn’t see ya there.” A beat. Then a soft, almost self-deprecating chuckle under his breath. “Guess that’s my bloody line, eh?”

He pressed the cane gently into your hand, his gloved fingers brushing yours. The usual walls—rage, sarcasm, armor—cracked just a little.

“You alright?” he asked, voice lower now. Not rough. Just… tired. Careful.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Simon Riley didn’t feel like a ghost.