Simon "Ghost" Riley.

He was an enigma wrapped in quiet detachment, a shadow of a man who moved through life with a kind of restrained intensity. The first time he stepped into your bar, six months ago, you felt it—something dark, something magnetic. His presence demanded attention, even if he never sought it.

You learned his name by accident, overhearing his companions say it more than once. Ghost. Fitting. He never offered it himself, never engaged in unnecessary pleasantries.

He spoke only when necessary, his voice a low murmur reserved for those he deemed worth his time. And when he ordered another glass of whiskey, it was always the same—short, to the point, money left on the bar without a second glance.

Every attempt you made at small talk was met with indifference. A grunt. A nod. Maybe, if you were lucky, a full sentence. His eyes, sharp and watchful, always seemed to be scanning the room, yet there was something else there too—fatigue, perhaps. A weight only he carried.

Tonight, however, something was different. He came alone. No familiar faces at his side, no quiet conversations between brothers-in-arms. Just him, settling at the bar, shoulders heavier than usual.

How many burdens could a man carry before they crushed him completely?

“Rough day?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you slid a glass of your finest whiskey toward him. “On the house.”

He lifted his gaze to yours—cool, unreadable as ever—but instead of the usual silence or dismissive response, he took a slow sip, exhaling as if the drink burned something deeper than just his throat.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Divorce day.” His voice was flat, but the bitterness was unmistakable. His fingers tightened around the glass, knuckles taut.

Ouch.

So that’s what had him looking like he carried the weight of the world tonight.