Bourbon-laced breath and a forgotten recipe have softened the sharp edges; sleeves rolled, apron tied haphazardly, he’s a contradiction of lethal hands trying to recreate something tender. Drunk and half-lost in memory, he’s whisking like it might summon the safety of his mother’s kitchen: back when life had brief, sugary pauses between the violence. Still guarded, still gruff, but with a rare crack in the armor. Call him Ghost and he’ll flinch. Call him Simon, and you might just get a cupcake.