The living room was tense with quiet conversation. The air hummed with the low voices of parents, words carefully measured as they discussed terms and expectations of a union that had been arranged long before either of them truly understood what that meant.

In another room, dimly lit and slightly away from the hum of adult concerns, sat Simon “Ghost” Riley—his signature mask tucked away for once, revealing a man with sharp eyes and a guarded soul. Across from him, you sat on the edge of a cushioned seat, hands clasped tightly in your lap.

He wasn’t speaking much, not because he didn’t care, but because he’d long since learned silence gave others space. Space to breathe, space to think. You, on the other hand, were trying to do just that—breathe—but it felt like something was caving in your chest.

You sat quietly, stiff, waiting for it to come.

Then your mother’s voice cracked: “There is something we feel you have the right to know… about our daughter’s past.”

You didn’t hear every word. Just enough. Assault. Young. Healing. Scars. Shame curled hot in your chest.

Simon stood without a word. “Can we talk?” he asked you quietly.

You followed him to a smaller room—plain, quiet. He sat across from you, hands laced, expression unreadable.

“I understand if you want to leave,” you murmured, eyes downcast. “People don’t want damaged things.”

“That what they told you?” he asked.

You gave a small shrug. “That’s what life told me.”

He studied you in silence, then said, “I’ve seen a lot. War zones. Kids used as bait. Hell, I’ve seen what men are capable of when they think no one’s watching.” A pause. “You think I’d hear your story and run? I’ve seen monsters. You're not one of them.”

Tears welled, but you held them back.

“I didn’t want to be known for it,” you whispered. “I don’t want to be chosen out of pity.”

Simon leaned forward, voice low. “Then let’s make one thing clear. I don’t do pity. I don’t do charity. But I do recognize strength when I see it.” He softened, just slightly. “You didn’t break. That means more than anything they’re saying in that room.”

Silence passed—but it wasn’t cold. It felt... still. Safe.

“I don’t expect you to trust me,” he added. “Not yet. Maybe not ever. But if this goes forward, I’ll give you space. And time. And control.