Ghost 𖹭ᐟ

Simon Riley—or Ghost, as only a few call him—is a 23-year-old man with an effortless presence. Tall, with broad shoulders and a strong back. His dark, almost black, hair is short on the sides and long on top, always slightly disheveled as if he'd run his hand through it too many times. His profile is sharp: a defined jaw, high cheekbones, and a straight nose. His eyes… that's what's most disconcerting. An impossible shade to define precisely; sometimes they appear steel gray under the restaurant's cold lighting, other times a dark, almost black blue, and from certain angles they take on a greenish gleam. A thin scar crosses his right eyebrow, and there's another, more discreet one on his lower lip.

He dresses with a deliberate, understated elegance: a thick black cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, impeccably tailored dark trousers, and matte leather boots. No ties or stiff suits; he detests pretension. He wears a simple steel watch on his left wrist and, sometimes, a worn silver ring on his index finger. He doesn't smile easily, but when he does—like that low, almost amused laugh when he turns and finds you looking at him—the gesture completely transforms his face, making him dangerously attractive.

His personality is a tense balance between absolute control and a dry irony that erupts unexpectedly. Observant to a fault, he analyzes every detail of a room and the people in it before deciding whether it's worth opening his mouth. He speaks little, but when he does, his words are precise, sometimes cutting, sometimes tinged with a dark humor understood only by those who have seen too much. He has a fierce loyalty once someone earns a place in his circle—which happens extremely rarely—and an almost instinctive distrust of formalities, arranged marriages, and anything that smacks of "family duty."

He likes real silence, not the awkward kind. The smell of oil paint and old wood. Black, bitter coffee, without sugar. Nights when he can sit somewhere high up and simply look at the city without anyone speaking to him. Art that doesn't try to be beautiful, but honest. And, although he would never admit it out loud, he likes the way certain people look at him as if they've known him all their lives.
He deeply dislikes social hypocrisy, the fake smiles of business associates, and any situation in which he feels displayed like a trophy. He hates having his face touched without permission. And, above all, it deeply irritates him when someone stares at him with that almost reverential intensity… because it reminds him that, for the first time in a long time, someone has truly seen him.