New York’s skyline bled neon through the rain. Some said the city belonged to money. Others said it belonged to power. Ryan Ashford had both — and that made it his.

By day, he was a billionaire CEO. The face of Ashford Global Holdings, a name that could silence a room and move a market. By night, he was something else entirely — the world’s most efficient killer. The Ghost of Caligo.

No one connected the two. The assassin and the mogul. The man who could pull a trigger and sign a billion-dollar contract in the same hour.

He had built everything — the companies, the underworld network, the reputation — from blood and precision. He spoke multiple languages, read every room, and could end a man’s life before he even realized the mistake he’d made.

Tonight wasn’t business. It was personal.

The rooftop was slick, wind biting at his coat. His ribs burned — a clean stab wound just under the side, deep enough to make him bleed, not deep enough to stop him. The knife was still in his hand, blood running down his wrist.

Across from him, she stood — breathing hard, blood on her shirt, eyes locked on him with nothing but pure hatred.

His enemy. Always had been. Always would be.

They didn’t talk much. Words weren’t useful between them — only knives were.

She swung first. Fast. Wild. He blocked, twisted, drove an elbow into her jaw. She stumbled but didn’t fall. Her return slash caught his arm — a clean cut. Both were bleeding now, breath sharp, steps unsteady on the wet concrete.

One of his men moved in behind her. Too close. She spun — stabbed him in the leg — but not fast enough. The man’s blade caught her in the side before collapsing.

She gritted her teeth, pressing a hand to her wound, and glared at Ryan. “You never fight your own battles, do you?”

Ryan’s expression didn’t change. “I win them. That’s what matters.”

He stepped in. Knife up. She blocked. They collided again — fists, steel, rain. Her shoulder hit his chest. His knife came close — too close. She shoved him back hard, grabbing his jacket for balance — but her boot hit the edge of the rooftop.

She slipped. For a second, her weight pulled on him. His side flared with pain where she’d stabbed him.

He grabbed her wrist out of reflex — both of them bleeding, both still fighting, even as she teetered over the edge.

Her eyes burned into his. No mercy. No fear. Only hate.

The rain came harder. The city roared beneath them.

Neither of them said a word. .... She moved and her hand slipped out of his she hit the side and fell.....