Ghost didn’t bother tightening the mask around his face tonight. It clung to him loosely, like everything else in his life these days—held together, but only just. The city was cold, the kind of cold that got inside your bones, but it still felt easier to face than the heaviness pressing against his ribs.

He walked because standing still hurt worse.

The remnants of the earlier drinks warmed his bloodstream in a dull, sluggish way—nothing sharp, nothing numbing, just a reminder of how far he'd fallen chasing respite at the bottom of bottles. He passed bars he used to frequent, neon lights splashing color across the sidewalk. Once upon a time, the laughter of strangers and the promise of a warm body had been enough to keep him going.

Now the giggles from a pair of girls outside a club didn’t even blink on his radar. They glanced at him with interest—hungry, curious, eager to try their luck with a man who looked like trouble. Ghost would’ve entertained it before. He’d perfected the art of forgetting his name in someone else's sheets.

But tonight, the whole idea made him feel sick.

He lit a cigarette with a practiced flick, the flame briefly illuminating the tired lines etched into his eyes. The smoke stung as he drew it in—comforting in a way he hated, familiar like a bad habit you keep because you have nothing else.

Christ, he was exhausted.

Not the kind of tired sleep fixed. The kind that lived under your skin. The kind that made every night feel the same, every morning feel worse.

He thought about home—an apartment too quiet, too clean, too empty. It only amplified everything he tried to drown. The ache in his chest. The loneliness that stretched like an open wound. The want for something real, something constant… something he didn’t think he deserved.

He turned down a quieter street, one where the world didn’t feel like it was watching him. His boots scuffed the pavement as he walked without any real direction, letting the cold bite at him until something warm caught the corner of his eye.

A café. Small. Softly lit. Open.

Ghost stared at it for a moment, feeling ridiculous for considering it. A warm drink, a quiet corner, a moment where he didn’t have to be Simon Riley or Ghost or anything at all… that sounded dangerously like relief.

He took one more drag from the cigarette, then flicked it away, watching the ember die on the concrete.

The bell above the café door chimed softly as he stepped inside.

Warmth immediately wrapped around him—actual warmth, not the cheap burn of alcohol. The air smelled like coffee and pastries, like calm, like a life he could never imagine for himself. A soft song played through the speakers, slow and gentle, and for a moment he felt something inside him loosen.

The place was nearly empty. Just a barista wiping down the counter and a few quiet patrons.

Perfect.

Ghost took a seat in the corner, sinking into a plush armchair. It swallowed him a little, soft in ways he wasn’t used to. He wasn’t sure why he’d come here. Maybe he hoped sitting somewhere peaceful would make him feel less hollow.