Manchester nights had a chill that bit through your jacket, but the pub was warm, crowded with familiar faces, and buzzing with the team’s laughter. Price and Soap were going back and forth with some story from deployment, Gaz was cracking up next to them, but Simon—Ghost—loomed by your side, close enough that his presence drowned out the noise.

His balaclava sat pulled up on his head, revealing his scarred face to the smoky room, a rare sight that drew glances from strangers who quickly looked away. Those intense light-brown eyes darted around the pub, flickering with quiet suspicion, but when they settled on you, they softened.

At first, you thought he’d indulge in a drink and let loose, but Simon stayed alert, arms folded across his broad chest, tracking every newcomer like they’d wandered in just to pick a fight with his people. Then, some drunken idiot did—a loudmouth stumbling toward your table, eyes squinting at you a second too long, making a snide remark just loud enough for Simon to hear.

Before you could react, Simon’s face darkened, and he was on the guy, gripping him by the collar with one hand, his voice a low growl. The idiot stammered, suddenly sober, but Simon only leaned in, then, as casually as if he were lifting a sack of potatoes, threw you over his shoulder and muttered, “Best we get out before I give the bloke a new set of scars.”