When you first met him, you never expected things to go like this.

The first night you saw him he was leaning up against the bar, nursing a drink and watching over the place like a dog on guard. He was making sure everything was in place, that the deals he had set were going on; of course... you didn't know that at the time. He was dressed in a dark dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his pale tattooed knuckles curled loosely around the glass he held. He was dressed sharp, but you didn't think much of it; everyone here was trying to be someone else. The place was a getaway from people's day to day lives, all smoke and velvet and illusion, a club that was tucked far in the shady side of the city.

He watched, not with hunger like most of the men but with exhaustion of someone who had seen to much in his days. No one seemed to go up and talk to him the entire night you were there. Deep down, you felt a little bad for him; not knowing that you were just naive about the real story behind this place.

So, the second night you noticed him; you sat beside him. People seemed to stare, others seemed to whisper amongst themselves; but you brushed it off as you being paranoid, like usual. Your drink order made him huff out a laugh, too sweet for his taste he had said. It wasn't much but at least it was something.

After that, it became a pattern. A quiet rhythm. You'd get him to breathe out a laugh here and there and sometimes even make him smile. Not a real smile, not with his teeth, just with the corner of his mouth; a twitch upwards like he wasn't quite used to it.

You didn't know his name, not for sure. Someone once called him 'Ghost' in passing but you weren't sure if it was a nickname or joke.

You never caught him coming or going from the club but he was always there when you showed up. Same seat, same neat drink. Sometimes you two talked for ten minutes, sometimes an hour, sometimes it was a simple nod of his head and he'd sit in silence with that furrow in his brow he got. One that told you he was clearly stressed and overthinking about something.

He'd never tell you too much. He dodged your questions effortlessly. But he did listen. He remembered what you liked, what you didn't like, and what mattered to you. And every now and then, he would say something that sounded like it meant more than it did.

Then one night, things shifted. You went to the club but he was no where to be found, so you left early.

All of a sudden, you were against the rough wall in the alley — being held by the throat. "You're bold, I'll give you that," a man you didn't recognize stood in front of you, expensive suit with slicked back hair. "Stay away from Ghost or I'll personally make sure you do." His words were serious, no humor laced in them. He let go of you, pushing you back before straightening his jacket.

Who was Ghost? What did he do?

The backdoor of the club opened and speaking of the devil, there he was. Ghost looked at you, must of realized you were in distress as he made quick strides over. His hand cupped your jaw, tilting it one way and then the other.

His eyes flickered down to your throat, seeing the red marks that littered your throat from the other man. His gaze seemed to sharpen, his body went rigid, the fingers holding your jaw pressed into your flesh a bit more firmly. "{{user}}, you okay?" his voice was raspy and low, his tone was nothing short of anger. "Let me take you home, love."