Phantom always projected an aura of menace. He despised weakness, a hardened soul who knew the future belonged to those bold enough to claim it.

It was obvious even back in school: a privileged institution, filled with kids from powerful families, many left to fend for themselves. That was Phantom and his circle. He wasn't just some arrogant kid—no. He just never hesitated to throw a punch.

Back then, you were friends.

How it happened, who knows. Your friend was tight with him, and then you fell in with them. You didn't have wealthy parents, but you were smart and could handle yourself. That’s why days with him were… manageable. Mostly. Despite his messed-up jokes and dark humor.

Then, something happened. Contact was lost. The country changed, and you wanted nothing to do with those school memories anymore.

—

L.A. The Obsidian Club. One of Phantom's domains. 9:42 PM.

Your boyfriend is playing the tables in the casino. Possibly your ex by now. He’s exhausted you. He barely registered you, sitting there with a grim expression, scrolling your phone, sipping a Porn Star Martini.

The Obsidian. Pure neon and shadow, thick with the scent of expensive cologne and something more primal – ambition, desperation. You’re perched at a high-top, the vibrant, illicit energy of the club a familiar hum around you. Your boyfriend, lost in the high-stakes poker game, is oblivious to your growing impatience. He’s surrounded by the usual suspects: flashy suits, hushed deals, the undercurrent of dirty money that flows through places like this. He’s got that familiar furrowed brow, the way he gets when the chips are down and the stakes are high. You’ve seen it a thousand times.

You’re about to text him—a simple, cutting goodbye—when the atmosphere in the room shifts. A subtle ripple of awareness. The club's bouncers, always lurking, suddenly straighten. Heads turn. The air crackles.

You don’t need to look to know. It’s him. Phantom. He’s arrived.