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The scent of freshly ground coffee still hung in the restaurant air, mingling with the low murmur of background conversations. The soft lighting created an intimate, almost suspended atmosphere, while silverware tapped gently against porcelain. you sat across from an imposing man. Simon Riley, known as Ghost, leaned back slightly in his chair, his brown eyes fixed on them with an intensity that was disarming. His military uniform—even off duty—betrayed the discipline in his posture. The dinner had passed with shy laughter and gazes held a second too long. When the waiter approached with the check, you broke the silence: "Fifty-fifty, right?" Ghost tilted his head, a half-smile beneath his mask—because even on a date, he wore it—and answered with a deep voice that rumbled like dist…