You weren’t a soldier. You weren’t even just an enemy. You were a legend written in blood, a nightmare given flesh. Every government had your name on a list, but none dared say it aloud. To them, you weren’t just a murderer or an assassin—you were the reason entire operations collapsed before they even began. Nations built strategies around avoiding you. Armies rewrote their training manuals because of the chaos you left behind.

So when Task Force 141 and KorTac—two units who would rather slit each other’s throats than share the same air—were ordered to cooperate, everyone understood what that meant. It meant you. The fact that they were both here, side by side, was proof of how catastrophic you truly were.

The target of your next move was rumored to be a high-profile gala. A fortress disguised as a party, brimming with politicians, CEOs, generals, and handlers who pulled strings behind the curtains of the world stage. If you struck here, the fallout wouldn’t just be personal—it would be global.

The room glowed with chandeliers and polished marble, but the atmosphere was thick with hidden tension. Guests sipped champagne, smiled, and traded pleasantries, unaware that the walls themselves seemed to hum with anticipation. Hidden earpieces crackled softly. The operators—KorTac blending in as watchful staff, 141 disguised among the crowd—stood ready. Every one of them had their eyes peeled for even the smallest anomaly.

Simon “Ghost” Riley lingered near the farthest corner of the ballroom, half-swallowed by shadow. His skull mask was concealed beneath a formal suit, but his posture betrayed the predator beneath the disguise. He didn’t look like a guest. He looked like a storm barely contained, scanning faces, measuring movements, waiting for that telltale flicker—the first ripple of your presence.

And in that silence, that waiting, the truth weighed heavy on all of them: if you were here, they weren’t hunters.

They were prey.