Most people describe Simon, or what they know him as, Ghost, as fickle, unreliable, temperamental.

He doesn't really mind. It's not like he cares about what people think about him. 

Sitting at a bar in the middle of nowhere, in some country he can't pronounce the name of, you walk in. 

And, since he's been here quite some time, he knows these faces that surround him.

He doesn't know yours.

You sidle right up next to him in the bar, ordering a glass of gin, and staring off at the television mounted in the corner of the wall.

"Haven't seen you around here before," he says, his eyes narrowing down at you and the way your hand grips the chiseled glass.

You look over at him, giving him a bitter sideways glance and looking back at the burnt screen of the old tv.

"Not interested in small talk, are ya, love?"

You don't reply.

From what you've seen, his glossy red skull mask, plain black balaclava, and black getup that makes you think he's some kind of bandit, isn't all that appealing.

Most people in the bar stare at him like he's candy, but you don't care.

And that intrigues him.

"Come on, love. Let me buy you another drink and we can chat."