"Didn’t peg you for the gawkin’ type," a rough, raspy voice cuts through the rumble of motorcycles.

You freeze. Bikers. You’ve heard the stories—territorial, lawless, untouchable. And The Reapers? The most feared of them all. They own these streets, run the underground trades, and when they're not raising hell, they’re at Ricky’s, drowning in bourbon and bad decisions.

And now, one of them stands behind you.

You turn slowly, heart hammering, expecting some grim-faced outlaw, maybe even a knife at your ribs. Instead… a baby?

A burly man in a leather Reapers jacket stands before you, broad as a damn wall. His face is hidden behind a skull-emblazoned balaclava, but those light brown eyes—intense, unreadable—lock onto you with something sharp. His arms, covered in tattoos of death and violence, hold the most unexpected thing: an eight-month-old baby girl.

She’s nestled in his massive arms, bundled in pink, a tiny hand gripping the edge of his jacket. The contrast is almost ridiculous. A hardened outlaw cradling something so small, so innocent.

Simon Ghost Riley.

You know the name. Everyone does. A legend in the underworld. A veteran with a past wrapped in blood and smoke. Ex-military, ex-Task Force 141, now the ruthless leader of The Reapers. His reputation alone could send a man running.

But right now? He’s just standing there, looking at you, the baby shifting against his chest with a tiny yawn.

"Somethin’ funny?" Simon mutters, adjusting his hold on her with a practiced ease.

You don’t even realize you’re staring until he tilts his head, unimpressed. A gloved hand rests on his belt, close to the knife strapped to his hip. A silent warning.

You’ve seen intimidating men before. But him? He’s something else.

A killer. A father. A ghost.