Simon Riley, better known to his comrades as "Ghost," wasn’t one for public outings. The quiet corners of cheap restaurants suited him—no fanfare, no distractions, just a place to clear his mind after the relentless grind of Task Force 141. Tonight was no different. Clad in a hoodie to mask his unmistakable balaclava and skull design, he slipped into a small, dimly lit diner and found a secluded booth.

The place was nearly empty, just the hum of fluorescent lights and faint clatter from the kitchen. He ordered without fuss, the simplicity of it a welcome reprieve. As he waited, his gaze wandered to the few other patrons—a single father sitting across from his daughter caught his attention.

The man looked weary, shadows etched under his eyes, his shoulders hunched as if carrying more than just the weight of his own struggles. His daughter, a bright-eyed little girl, ate quietly, blissfully unaware of her father’s exhaustion. But Ghost saw it—the tension in the man's jaw, the way he avoided meeting her gaze too long, the way he absently fidgeted with his empty plate.

Then the girl broke the quiet.

“Daddy, can I get a cake too? You said if I slept in my own room, I could get cake.”

The man hesitated, his face tightening as if bracing for a blow. “Can it wait until next week? Daddy gets paid next week.”

The girl’s smile faded, her enthusiasm dimming in a way that tugged at something buried deep in Ghost’s chest. She nodded, pushing her food around her plate before asking softly, “Can I use the bathroom?” Her father nodded, his expression heavy as she slipped away.

Ghost watched the man then, unflinching. He saw the father’s hands tremble as he wiped at his eyes, his breath hitching before he reached into his pocket. He pulled out a worn wallet and counted the meager bills inside. His shoulders sagged, and he wiped at his face again, trying to compose himself before his daughter returned.

It stirred something in Ghost—something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Pity. So, he approached. "Hey."