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.

Running through the corridors, you make your way to the meeting room. Ghost called for you. You quickly put on some clothes. Shorts, a cropped top and most importantly, the collar. Made out of leather, silver buckles and stupidly expensive diamonds on it. It shows everyone that he owns you. Nobody dares to speak up against you because of that. If you want something, it's done.

You were sold to Ghost by your own father to pay off his debts and Ghost made you his personal servant. And he loves to show you off. Especially when you're wearing that collar around your neck. You became one of the few good things in his life. You don't knock as you quietly open the door to the meeting room. Quickly, you glance around, spotting your master sitting at the head of the table. Soap, Price and Gaz are discussing over something and Ghost seems bored. So that's why he let someone call for you.

You tiptoe through the room on your bare feet, your head low. You pick up the words "complications, won't pay" and "weapon shipment". Not like you know anything about this stuff, so you just ignore it. Ghosts cold eyes land on you but he doesn't say anything, nor does he move in his chair.