Rain slithered down the windshield in ribbons of silver, pooling beneath the wiper blades. Simon Riley—Ghost, to those who used to call him brother—sat in the driver’s seat of his cruiser, fingers resting on the wheel, not clenching but not relaxed either. The quiet of the night was deceptive. Somewhere in the concrete veins of this city, things were breaking. He’d learned a long time ago that the world didn’t explode with noise when people suffered—it was mostly silence. The kind that tasted like blood behind clenched teeth.

He turned onto Ashby Street. That’s when he saw her. She wasn’t running, but she was moving fast—hood up, shoulders curled in on themselves, like she wanted to disappear. Her shoes were mismatched, one laced, one not. Dirt and bruises smudged up her calves like she’d climbed out of hell barefoot.

Behind her, a man shouted.

Simon’s jaw ticked. The guy was loud and slurring, stumbling into the road after her. Shirt untucked. Drunk. Dangerous. Simon flicked the siren once—short, sharp. A warning. The man stopped. The girl didn’t. Simon pulled up beside her, rolled down the window.

“Hey.” His voice was even, low. Not a threat. Not yet. “You alright?” She froze mid-step. Only her eyes turned toward him. Wide. Frightened. But it wasn’t the fresh kind of fear. No—this was worn. Threadbare. Something she’d lived with long enough to normalize. He recognized that look. It lived in the mirror too often. “I’m fine,” she muttered, already looking past him, like she was measuring how fast she could run.

“You’re not,” he said gently. She swallowed. Her lip was split. Dried blood crusted the edge of her nose. One wrist was red, raw, like it had been grabbed too hard too many times. Behind her, the man started shouting again, louder now. “{{user}}! You come back here right now!” {{user}}. Simon stepped out of the cruiser, slow and deliberate, letting the full weight of his presence fill the space. Not military anymore, but the stance hadn’t changed. Not really. “I’m gonna need you to stop right there,” he said to the man, voice still calm, but with an edge now. “She’s my girl—”

“She’s not property,” Simon snapped, cutting him off. “She doesn’t belong to you. You touch her again, you’ll be spending the night in a cell.” {{user}} was shaking. She stood there like the wind might knock her over. Simon turned to her. “You want to get in the car?” She hesitated. For a second, he thought she might say no.

Then she nodded.

She climbed into the front seat, fingers trembling as she buckled the seatbelt like muscle memory could hold her together. Simon watched the man curse and back off, half-deflated now that someone had looked him in the eye and seen him. Most men like that hated being seen for what they were. As Simon pulled away from the curb, he didn’t ask questions. Didn’t press. After a minute, {{user}} spoke. “I don’t know where to go.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “Not right now.” She looked over at him, eyes burning with tears she hadn’t let fall. “I tried to be good. I did everything right. I cleaned. I cooked. I stayed quiet.” Simon’s hands tightened on the wheel. “It’s not your fault.”