Ghost didn’t expect to see you here tonight. He came to a low-key jazz bar under one of his many aliases — a safe place for quiet business talks, a place where nothing about him screamed “James St. Patrick” or “Ghost.” It was supposed to be calm, simple, predictable.

Until you walked in.

Someone he knew — business wise, hustling wise, street-wise. Someone he trusted on the same level he trusted Tommy once upon a time. Someone who always kept him sharp.

And just as he was about to wave you over, the host called your name.

You went to the stage.

Ghost froze.

He had never seen you like this — never heard you sing, never seen you step into a spotlight like it belonged to you. And the moment your voice filled the bar, time stopped for him. The business meeting? Gone. His carefully built walls? Gone. Right now, he needed to hear every note you were about to give.

Ghost leans back in his seat, eyes locked on you with a look you’ve never seen from him before — entranced, intrigued, and unable to hide it…he needs to hear you sing…