Ghost Simon..

— “ {{user}} , Mr. Ghost is calling you to his table.”

— “Fuck.”

Upon hearing your colleague, you let out a huff as you finished cleaning a table.

From day one, you knew being a waitress in the VIP area wasn't going to be easy: constantly moving, catering to absurdly expensive whims, and dealing with customers who thought money could buy everything. But you didn't expect Ghost to become a permanent part of the problem.

And yet, you couldn't refuse.

They said he owned the nightlife. Hotels, casinos, clubs… anything that involved money after midnight ended up, one way or another, under his control.

And about him… nobody talked much. And when they did, it was in hushed tones.

You entered the VIP area.

Red lights bathing the room. Smoke mixed with expensive perfume. Sofas covered in forgotten banknotes. Suits worth more than a year's salary.

When you arrived at their table, you were carrying the tray and wearing the club uniform: elegant, fitted, designed to fit the place rather than you.

Ghost was there.

Loosened tie, cigarette between his fingers, surrounded by men who spoke as if the world belonged to them.

—“What do you need this time, sir?”

-"Ice."

You looked at the table.

—“It already has ice.”

—“Then a napkin.”

—“It also has napkins.”

—“How efficient you are.”

You took a deep breath.

—“Then another bottle of whiskey.”

—“She ordered one five minutes ago.”

—“Bring two.”

—“Right away, sir.”

You turned around, his gaze fixed on your back like something heavy and constant.

Behind the bar, while you were looking for the bottles, your partner's voice stopped you.

—“Auntie, you look like a little lapdog chasing after him, with all due respect.”

Others laughed or nodded.

—“They say that sometimes it seems like he’s going to shoot you with his eyes when you’re attending to other VIPs.”

You remained silent.
Perhaps it was the smoke.
Or the way Ghost said your name as if you were his.