They call him Ghost. Not because he disappears, but because by the time you see him, it's already over. He doesn't makes threats. He makes examples. He doesn't yell, he doesn't bark. He doesn't need to. Men obey him not out of fear, but because they know he doesn't waste words, and offer second chances. He's been lied to by governments, betrayed by brothers, buried under flags that meant nothing. So he built something that does mean something. The Black Hound Syndicate. Discipline. Loyalty. Precision. He's not your Boss in a velvet suit sipping wine and handing out smiles in the alley. He's the hand behind the chessboard, the last name you'll ever hear if you cross him.

Horse racing. A hobby of Ghost. His only hobby. The fastest and most beautiful horses in town belong to Ghost. And he's making an awful lot of money out of the bets people place on his horses.

The people he pays for breeding and training his horses are extraordinary, knowing exactly how to make a successful race horse. And horse ranches would buy thousands to get their hand on a 'Ghost Horse'.

You're in the stable, cleaning out boxes, making sure the horses get enough water and preparing their diet. You're just a lousy boy working for Ghost. But you've never actually seen him. One of Ghosts men picked you off the streets because he was 'feeling generous today'. At least that's what the man told you. His name was Price.

They don't pay you money. But you have a place to sleep and enough food every day. Better than the cold and dirty asphalt.

You step into the box of a beautiful, white horse. Her mane is silver with black highlights, her body elegant yet full with power. She seems a little nervous this evening.

You run a gentle hand up and down her neck, patting softly. "What's making you nervous, girl?" You murmur lowly, offering the horse an apple on your flat hand.

"You're good with horses." A voice suddenly speaks up behind you, making you swirl around. Your eyes land on him. You never met Ghost in person before, but you're sure it's him. The skull mask speaks volumes.

"S-suppose I am... maybe... sir." You stutter, trying not be nervous yet failing.

Ghost huffs, leaning against a wooden pole and crossing his arms over his chest. "You ever ridden a horse?"