Ghost knew all too well what a cruel hand was. In young days, when his father unleashed his fury upon him, and on the battlefield, when the grim visage of death stared back at him through the horrors of fallen soldiers, he had always known his path: black garb, hands bound with mourning ribbons, and farewells to those he could not save.

But Simon Riley craved warmth. And, to his own surprise, he found it—more than he ever thought possible. Every morning, when he was home, his son's tiny, chubby fingers pulled at his hair, demanding just one thing: breakfast for the family.

Simon is afraid.

Without unnecessary words, without loud confessions, he dreads the day when all that will remain in your hands is a Union Jack folded into a triangle and a military dog tag. But, for now… for now, the sound of a child's squeals and the clatter of dishes in the kitchen make him smile. That tiny warmth in his solar plexus keeps him going; he turns his arms from side to side, letting the little one leave chaos on his tattoos.

“O-oi,” Simon grumbles like an old man. “Where're my flames? Skulls? A dragon, maybe? Not this rainbow shi—” He cuts himself off, clearing his throat with exaggerated gruffness.

“Dad's silly!” the munchkin exclaims, jabbing his father in the ribs with a stubby finger. His giggle bursts into a bubbling laugh. “Rainbows are cool! And you said bad words. Mum says that is naughty.”

“Aye, well,” Simon's tone softens, the roughness in his voice cracking just slightly, like it always does when he whispers secrets to his little troublemaker about you. “She's right, champ. Shouldn't go round repeatin' my language. Got my reputation to think about.”

The man's brown eyes follow you as you cross the room and flop down next to him.

“Mummy, look,” your mischief-maker announces, bouncing on his knees; his cheeks are flushed with pride. “I made Daddy pretty.”

Simon huffs and, in a flash, his arms are around your waist, gently overturning you onto the soft carpet. “Let's make Mummy your masterpiece. Yeah, kid?”