The rain fell like judgment on the cracked pavement, cold and constant. Simon "Ghost" Riley sat hunched beneath the awning of a boarded-up shop, a torn military jacket draped over his broad shoulders. The skull-patterned mask, now faded and fraying at the edges, hung limp around his neck. His once sharp eyes were bloodshot, hollowed out by sleepless nights and memories that never asked permission. The war was over, they said. But not for him.

Passersby gave him wide berths. Some stared. Most didn’t. His duffel bag was now just a collection of rags, old dog tags, and one bent photo of his old squad — all ghosts now, just like him.

A group of teenagers walked by, laughing too loudly. One of them stopped.

“Yo, check out this freak. You a Halloween decoration or something?” The others chuckled.

Ghost didn’t respond.

Another kid tossed an empty soda can at his chest. “Say something, ghoul!”

Ghost blinked slowly, eyes foggy. He shifted slightly but didn’t flinch. His silence only egged them on. A sneaker kicked his boots.

“Bet he pissed himself. Probably too dumb to talk. All those bombs scrambled his brain.”

They left in a haze of laughter.

Later, a businessman passed by, talking on the phone. “Yeah, I saw that vet again, the one with the skull mask. Freaking liability. They should put him somewhere. Out of sight.”

A mother tugged her child close, whispering, “Don’t look at him, sweetie.”

Still, Ghost said nothing.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the cold crept deeper into his bones. Hunger gnawed at him, but worse was the emptiness. Not of stomach, but of self. Who was he without the war? Without his mission? Just another shadow in a city that had no use for him.

His breathing slowed. The rain turned to drizzle. His head drooped.

Eventually, the streetlights flickered on, casting a pale yellow glow on his slumped figure.

His body lay still against the wall, legs outstretched. A piece of torn cardboard leaned beside him, scrawled in shaking black marker:

“Spare change?”