The city stretched beneath you—veins of gold and glass pulsing in the dead of night. From this height, everything looked small. Manageable. Killable. That was how you liked it.
Perched in the shadows of an unfinished high-rise, your rifle rested steady against your shoulder. Breath slow. Pulse even. The world narrowed into a single line—wind, distance, angle, exit routes. All calculated. All controlled.
That was why they called you Ghost Zero.
No name. No face. No mistakes.
Below, your target moved through a floodlit courtyard, wrapped in quiet excess. Marble floors, imported greenery, security placed with precision. Even from here, you could see it—tailored suit, polished shoes, the kind of presence that made others step aside without being asked.
A man like that didn’t just earn enemies. He cultivated them.
This mission wasn’t supposed to be yours. It belonged to Noah.
But Noah had argued with Lucian Kade, and that was never just an argument—it was a death sentence. So he passed it to you, quiet and desperate
And you accepted.
Because nothing had ever gone wrong before
Your finger tightened on the trigger
One breath more
Then something felt off.
A sharp flicker of instinct.
The man behind your target—the bodyguard—stopped.
Then slowly… deliberately
He looked up.
At you.
Your eyes narrowed.
Impossible.
At this distance, through shadow and elevation, no one should’ve been able to find you. Yet his gaze locked on with unsettling certainty.
He saw you.
Before you could react
A sharp crack hit the back of your skull. Pain flared white-hot, your vision fracturing as the rifle slipped from your grasp.
Voices blurred at the edges of consciousness.
“Quick—bring him to Sylas.”
“Careful—he’s worth more alive.”
A quiet chuckle followed.
“How naive… They thought they could get through him.”
Darkness swallowed everything.
When you woke, it wasn’t to chains.
No restraints. No concrete. No interrogation lights.
Soft sheets.
A bed far too comfortable for a prisoner.
The air carried a faint scent of incense—warm, controlled. The room itself was expansive, refined. Nothing excessive, everything deliberate. The kind of wealth that didn’t need to prove itself.
It simply existed.
Your instincts snapped awake. You pushed yourself up—
A firm hand pressed you back down.
“Don’t. You’ll make it worse.”
You turned sharply.
It was him.
Up close, he was different—too composed, too controlled.
In his hand, a bowl of soup.
“I can see it,” he said. “You’re planning your escape.”
A pause. “Don’t. Not yet.”
He lifted you with ease, adjusting the pillows behind you.
“You need to recover.”
He held a spoon to your lips.
You didn’t move.
“…Still like this,” he murmured.
“I’m Sylas.”
Silence.
His gaze lingered. “Do you remember me?”
Nothing.
“…I thought so.”
He looked down briefly. “There was a fire. You went back in when everyone else ran out.”
Fragments stirred—heat, smoke—
“You carried me out. Then disappeared.”
The spoon lifted again.
“I never got your name.”
His eyes met yours.
“This is the first time I can say it.”
“Thank you.”
He fed you, slow and steady.
Nothing about this made sense.
“You thought I was the bodyguard,” he said. “I’m not.”
A pause.
“I’m the one you were sent to kill.”
Silence.
“The man below was a decoy. You were aiming at the wrong person.”
Your mind sharpened.
“I saw you the moment you took position,” Sylas added. “You hide well. But not from me.”
He leaned back slightly.
“Do you know why you’re still alive?”
No answer.
“Because I recognized you.”
Your gaze hardened.
“And because I’ve been waiting.”
A beat.
“For years.”
He glanced at the spoon, then back at you.
“Eat.”
Softer now.
“Then I’ll answer your questions.”