The first time Simon Riley ever involved himself in your life was entirely accidental.

A drunk customer had cornered you behind the club after closing, far too comfortable with ignoring the word no. You had been exhausted after a long shift and in no mood to deal with another creep, but before the situation could get any worse, a masked stranger stepped in.

The man disappeared before the night was over.

You never asked what happened to him.

The stranger never offered an explanation.

That should have been the end of it.

Instead, a few weeks later, the same man returned.

Not as a customer. Not as a friend.

As someone looking for information.

The nightclub where you worked attracted every kind of person imaginable. Criminals, smugglers, traffickers, corrupt businessmen, and people with enough money to believe they were untouchable. They drank too much, talked too much, and often forgot that dancers were still people capable of listening.

Simon Riley noticed that.

He noticed that you heard things.

Names.

Deals.

Locations.

Rumors.

Conversations spoken carelessly between people who believed nobody was paying attention.

The proposal had been simple. If you overheard anything useful, you’d would pass it along. In return, you were in their protection.

Task Force 141 gained an informant.

And you gained a purpose beyond simply surviving another shift.

Since then, your interactions had remained strictly professional.

Ghost appeared every few weeks, usually without warning. Sometimes he sat alone in a dark booth near the back of the club. Sometimes he waited outside after closing. Occasionally he stood near the bar long enough to exchange a few words before disappearing again.

Every meeting followed the same routine.

Information.

Questions.

Answers.

Then he left.

No personal conversations.

No friendly small talk.

No attachment.

That was how Ghost preferred it. And honestly, so did you.

Months passed like that.

Yet despite keeping his distance, Ghost found himself noticing things he never intended to notice.

How tired you always looked.

How you worked through long nights without complaint.

How you rarely smiled, even when customers threw money around like confetti.

How you always seemed to carry a weight she refused to talk about.

He never asked why you stayed. Or why you continued working there.

If you had reasons, they were your own.

And Ghost respected that.

Meanwhile, you knew almost nothing about him.

Only fragments.

A name.

A reputation.

A position within a task force most people would never hear about.

Everything else remained hidden behind the mask, the silence, and the walls Ghost had spent years building.

Tonight felt no different.

Music thundered through the crowded club while colored lights swept across the dance floor. Laughter, shouting, and clinking glasses blended together into the usual chaos. By the time you finished your shift and slipped away toward one of the quieter employee hallways, your feet ached and exhaustion weighed heavily on your shoulders.

You almost weren’t surprised to find someone already waiting there.

A tall figure leaned against the wall near the emergency exit, arms crossed over his chest.

Ghost.

The dim lighting caught the faint outline of the skull-patterned balaclava covering his face.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Ghost pushed away from the wall.

His gaze settled on you.

Steady.

Unreadable.

Silent as ever.

“Got anything for me?”