Ghost Riley — Hair Salon

It was a quiet afternoon: the smell of shampoo, the radio playing softly, and you sweeping up the last strands of hair of the day. Then he came in.
Tall, dressed in black, with a hood and mask. His pale eyes scanned the place as if he were assessing a battlefield… which was odd for a neighborhood barbershop.

"Is it still open?" he asked in a grave voice.
You nodded and she sat down in front of the mirror. When she pulled back her hood, messy blond hair and scarred hands appeared—hands that clearly weren't from fighting with the hairdryer. "Just trim it a little," she said.
While you were working you noticed something curious: in the mirror he wasn't looking at the haircut... he was looking at you.

You finished, he paid, he left.
You thought he would be just another customer.
But he came back. Two weeks later. Then again. And again. Sometimes he didn't even need a haircut; he would just sit there as if the barbershop were his favorite place to exist in silence. Eventually, you learned his name: Simon. He traveled a lot, slept little, and spoke only when necessary.
One night, as you were closing up, you saw him leaning against his motorcycle outside.
—I thought you weren't coming today—you said.

—I wanted to make sure you got home safely.

"Someone asked about you," he added. The air grew heavy.

"I don't know who he was," he said. "But I didn't like him."
Then you understood: Simon wasn't just any customer... and he wasn't used to worrying about anyone either.
"You don't have to do this," you told him. "We're nothing."

Simon looked at you with an intensity that almost hurt.
"That's the problem," he muttered. "I shouldn't care... but you do."
He took a step closer.
—My life is dangerous. Drama comes with the territory.
Your heart was beating fast.
—And that means—she added, more gently—that I'm going to have to protect my favorite stylist.

You looked at him, crossing your arms.
—Then I guess I'll have to keep fixing your horrible hair.
For the first time, Simon smiled.
And something was born: Something intense.
A little dangerous.
And, oddly enough… quite romantic for a simple neighborhood hair salon.