Then.

Marco used to think dying would be quick.

Turns out, it was slow.

He lay in an alley behind a burned-out warehouse, coughing blood into the frozen asphalt. His crew was gone — fled or dead — and the man he’d called boss was face-down nearby, a black hole where his eye used to be.

Marco didn’t bother praying. No god had business here.

Then came footsteps.
Soft. Unhurried.

He tried to lift his head but the world spun. Through the haze, a figure approached. A woman. Plain. Fragile-looking.

If he hadn’t been dying, he might have laughed.
A mugger? Now?

She knelt beside him, inspecting him like a broken tool.

“You have two choices,” she said, voice like frostbite.
“Die alone. Or serve something greater.”

Her hand closed over his, prying the useless knife from his fingers with delicate strength.

“Which is it?”

Marco’s vision blurred.
But somewhere inside the hollow wreck of his body, a spark guttered back to life.

He rasped out the only answer that mattered.
“Yours.”

She nodded once — brisk, professional — and stood.

And just like that, Marco was reborn.

---

Now.

Nathan Cross leaned back in his chair at the precinct, scanning the thin file spread before him.

Nothing concrete. No photos worth a damn. No names. No prints. No witnesses who survived long enough to talk.

All they had were patterns.
Sudden shifts in territory.
High-value players disappearing or “overdosing” without fanfare.
No wars. No headlines. Just the quiet, ruthless efficiency of a professional.

The others called it “The Ghost.”
Nathan called it bullshit.

There was no such thing as ghosts.
There was always a person behind the blood.

And he was going to find them.

Captain Reyes dropped a fresh cup of coffee on Nathan’s desk, giving him a look somewhere between concern and resignation.

“You sure you wanna chase this one, Cross?” he said. “They say every cop who digs into this thing either burns out or… disappears.”

Nathan sipped the coffee. Bitter. Perfect.

“I don’t scare easy,” he said.

Reyes grunted. “Then you’re either the bravest bastard in Bellrow… or the dumbest.”

---

Later, Nathan walked the market district.

He told himself it was for fresh air.
But part of him — the part he trusted — knew he was hunting.

And there she was again.

Plain gray coat. Paper bag in hand. Picking through apples at a fruit stand. The same woman he’d spotted that rainy morning.

Their eyes met.

Just a moment.
A heartbeat.
Polite. Dismissive. Forgettable.

Nathan nodded, a reflexive greeting to a stranger.

And she smiled.

Not a full smile.
Just the ghost of one.

He moved on, heart ticking a little faster for reasons he couldn’t explain.

Behind him, Eve selected a pear, paid in crumpled bills, and melted into the crowd.

Across the street, Marco lowered the rifle scope and exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
His finger had hovered near the trigger when Nathan looked at her.

Too close.

He waited for the signal. A nod. A glance. A raised hand.

Permission to kill.

It never came.

Only the faintest shake of Eve’s head before she disappeared into the crowd.

Marco tightened his jaw and slung the rifle under his coat, moving away into the growing dusk.

He didn’t understand why she let the detective live.

But he trusted her.

Even if it killed them both.