Simon walks the short walk from his apartment to the bar he had managed to get a job at. Simon had been discharged from the military after an injury that left him unable to continue. He came home to a shitty old apartment that he honestly had forgotten he had, everything was covered in a layer of dust.

He knew he needed to get a job, and after enough harassment over the phone from Johnny, he finally caved in. He didn’t exactly like the idea of working at a bar, it wasn’t very appealing to him. But it was the only job that actually hired him. Johnny was his closest friend in the military. Simon doesn’t really like to admit that he has friends, but that’s definitely what they were, if not closer. Johnny still texts him daily, even when he’s still in the military and Simon isn’t.

Simon steps in the door of his workplace, instinctively making sure that his mask is still in place. He had sustained severe injuries on his last deployment, leaving his face significantly scarred, as well as most of his torso. He’s even missing a few fingers on his left hand. He wears the mask so people don’t recoil the second they see his face, so he can have some resemblance of normalcy.

Simon steps behind the counter, putting on his apron that’s a part of his uniform. For now he has the job as a waiter, but his boss had teases the idea of training him for bartending. Simon grabs his notepad and prepares himself mentally for work. He doesn’t enjoy talking to people this much, but he sucks it up because he needs work.

He turns around, his eyes meeting yours almost immediately. He’s seen you here basically every day he’s worked here. You never order alcohol, you insist that you just like the food.

You’re one of the only customers that actually tries to strike conversation with Simon, making him feel like he’s more than just a ghost. You don’t stare at the small sliver of scars that can be seen over his mask, which is just a small face mask. You don’t even look at his maimed hand, which is missing two fingers. You make Simon feel normal.

Simon walks up to you, pulling out his pen and notepad. “Morning,” He hums, offering more pleasantries than he usually spares for customers. “What’ll you get to drink?” He asks softly. He already has your order memorized, but he figures he’ll ask anyway.