Simon “Ghost” Riley

The bar is almost empty. Rain beats against the windows, mixing with the murmur of an old song playing through a broken speaker. Ghost is there, leaning against the bar. His skull mask stands out in the dim light, and the cigarette smoke burning between his fingers casts shadows in the air.

You sit close enough to notice the smell of tobacco, metal, and rain. He doesn't say anything. He just moves the glass in his hands, without looking at you.

A few seconds pass, feeling like they're heavy. Then his voice sounds—low, deep, with that British accent that cuts through the air:

"If you're going to stand there staring at me, at least order a drink."

Looks up. The painted skull seems to be staring right at you. You don't know if it's challenging you... or inviting you to stay.