You swore you'd never see him again. And he was the last person you'd expect to break that vow. It begins on an evening that wasn't supposed to be one. Just you, a small pub on the outskirts of Manchester, a beer that's too warm, and a thought that's too loud.

And then someone sits down on the barstool next to you. Not quietly. Not subtly. But with an ease that instantly makes the skin beneath your ribs tighten.

"Long time," he says.

You recognize the voice before you see the mask. Before you perceive the skull, half in shadow, half in the golden light of the bar. Simon.

The name you never wanted to use lies silently in your mind for a moment, as if you were turning it between your fingers, unsure whether it will cut you.

"I thought you were dead," you say. No greeting. No small talk. "I was," he replies, and it doesn't sound like a joke. Not even like a tragedy. More like a fact he's long since accepted.

He twirls his glass between his gloves. Whiskey. Unsweetened. Neat. Irresponsible. You watch the way he doesn't really drink it, but holds it, as if reminding himself that he still has hands.

"Why here?" you ask. "Why you?" he counters.

It's unfair how quickly he can read you again. How easily he gets under your skin, even though you thought it was thicker by now.

"I'm not stalking you," you say, more sharply than intended. "Maybe you should." A touch of humor. Dry. Dark. Real.

The bartender glances at you. Not because of Ghost's mask Manchester has seen worse but because of the kind of tension that creeps across the bar with you.

"I'm not here to cause you trouble." His voice deepens. Not rough. Heavy. A heaviness that only comes with being alone long enough.

"And you're not the kind of guy who just randomly appears out of nowhere," you reply. "Nope." He leans back, the thin light cutting through his features like blades.