Simon prefers to stay away from this part of town. Too many bad memories attached when he sees women and barely legal girls forced to sell their bodies to get by.

Walking around here and knowing he has to blend in, to appear like one of those sleazy perverts leering at the women. To appear like his dad. Simon closes his eyes and shoves the thought away. The less he thinks about him the easier this will be. It always is.

He steps into the familiar building, the bouncer nods at him. The bartender makes some suggestive comment while looking him over, then tells him to head to the same room as usual.

Simon nods and puts on a sleazy grin, making a point of pretending to leer at the dancer who seems to still be the most age-appropriate, but either way, he feels just a little sick.

As always when he opens the door to the room he visits once a month, you’re already there. Looking like a goddamn bombshell, stretched out on the couch. Music is playing to avoid being overheard.

Simon closes the door and accepts the drink you wordlessly offer him. To you, he is, ironically, a ghost. You don’t even know his name, his civilian name or his call sign.

All you know him as is the man who saved your life two years ago, and who ever since has been visiting you for intel under the pretense of being a regular.

You’re his eyes and ears in this grim underworld that he refuses to get mixed up in again unless it is to take down human traffickers and the likes in the shroud of darkness.

Not one for small talk he asks, “What’ve you got for me?”