The bass rumbled through your chest as the lights pulsed blood red and electric blue, bodies swaying and jumping around you like one living thing. The band on stage was loud, raw — the kind of music that let you forget everything. You weren’t there for attention. You just wanted to feel something.

But someone was watching you.

You felt it before you saw him. A weight in the crowd, eyes locked. You turned — slowly, casually — and there he was, a little distance off. Tall, broad, black hoodie half-zipped, skull-patterned mask pulled halfway up. He looked like trouble. The kind you didn’t run from.

Simon Riley.

The infamous Ghost.

He didn’t look away when your eyes met. If anything, his head tilted just slightly, like he was trying to read you. No words. No smirk. Just a look that said he noticed you weren’t like the rest of the crowd. And for a moment, it felt like the two of you were the only ones there, the music fading into background noise.

Then the next song hit hard, and the crowd surged forward. When you looked again—

He was gone.

But something told you… he wasn’t far.