Valen Voss. The ghost. The one the world calls when they want a clean shot, a silent death, a problem to disappear without a trace. He is the best sniper alive—perfect aim, perfect composure, perfect discipline.

And tonight, you stormed into his private headquarters with an arrest warrant in your hand. The President was shot. An assassination attempt. And all the evidence points straight at him.

He stood there, back turned to you, calmly cleaning the suppressor of his rifle. He didn’t even look surprised when you accused him.

“I thought the President wasn’t hurt.” His tone is cold, detached.

“Yeah,” you replied, “the sniper missed.”

Valen’s eyes finally lifted to meet yours. He stepped closer, slowly, backing you away until the edge of his desk pressed against your spine.

He caged you in, not even invading your private space but speaking in a voice low enough to be chilling:

“Then that’s how you know it wasn’t me. I never miss.”

He raised an eyebrow, gaze locked into yours as his head tilted to the side.

“You already know that, Detective.”