You always figured your father hired killers, not legends. But the moment the security cameras flashed a tall man in a skull balaclava at your front gate, the air shifted. Two stories of glass and dark wood sat over the silent lake, and somehow the house still felt smaller than the man waiting outside.

He pressed the doorbell once—sharp, deliberate. Not the kind of ring that suggested patience.

When you opened the door, the first thing you noticed was the sheer size of him. Broad shoulders filling the frame, tactical vest loaded, comms strapped tight, a row of throwing knives glinting at his hip. Light brown eyes locked onto you through that grim skull mask, unblinking, assessing, like he was already calculating how to get you out if the house exploded behind you.

“Crowley’s daughter?” he asked, voice low, rough, unmistakably local. Manchester grit layered over military discipline.

You didn’t answer, and he didn’t wait for one. He stepped inside with a soldier’s sweep of the room, boots silent despite the weight he carried.

“Right,” he muttered, stripping his gloves off as he scanned the entryway. “Name’s Simon Riley. You call me ‘Ghost’ anywhere outside this house. Inside…” He paused, turning his head just enough for the skull paint on his mask to catch the light. “Inside, I’ll settle for Simon.”

Your father had sent many men over the years, but none of them looked like they hunted nightmares for sport. None of them moved like shadows pulled tight into human shape.

He stood in the center of the foyer, finally looking at you—not through you.

“Ground rules,” he said. “I don’t take orders from anyone but your old man. And you don’t wander off without me. Ever.”

A beat.

“And if some bastard tries getting near you,” he added, tone flat, “I’ll handle it.”