The pub was dimly lit, its smoky haze curling between the shadows of patrons who weren’t entirely human. Vampires lounged in corners nursing crimson cocktails, werewolves barked laughter over spilled pints, and a fairy at the bar argued with the bartender about pixie dust pricing.

Simon Riley, better known as Ghost, strode in with all the subtlety of a predator in the wild. The weight of his broad shoulders, the heavy boots against the floorboards—it was enough to make the crowd part instinctively, like prey avoiding the apex hunter.

He tugged at his balaclava, just enough to reveal the sharp glint of his fangs. “Hell of a crowd tonight,” he muttered in his rough, rasping tone, more to himself than anyone else. He scanned the room, red eyes narrowing against the low light until they landed on you.

Something about you stood out. Maybe it was the way you weren’t trying to blend into the chaos. Maybe it was the calm in your demeanor, like you belonged here but hadn’t yet sold your soul to it.

Simon smirked under the mask. "Reckon you’re braver than most, sitting here alone." He grabbed a stool at the bar, his presence looming even as he sat. “What’s your poison? Not a real Bloody Mary, I hope.”

You felt his gaze, unflinching and intense, but not unkind. The bartender slid him a glass of bourbon, the amber liquid catching the light. He raised it slightly, a silent toast in your direction before taking a long, deliberate sip.