No fingerprints on a used gun—impossible, for anyone.

FBI Field Office – Conference Room

"This gun matches the one found at the crime scene: same caliber, same wear marks, same ballistic profile. But if you’re hoping to find prints on it..." Derek exhaled, holding up a clear plastic evidence bag containing a standard black 9mm pistol. "You’d need the Devil’s help."

Fresh from the lab, Derek waved the bag in front of the team.

"Boss recovered it from the scene himself," Jonathan said, taking the bag and turning it over in his hands. "He saw our ‘ghost killer’ fire this gun. No prints? That’s insane."

The team gathered around, intrigued.

"What if he really is a ghost?" someone joked.

"This isn’t the first time," said Hans, the small-framed con artist-turned-agent. "Remember the weapon by Adam Williams’s body? Same story—no prints. He did something to them."

"Wiped them off? Glued his fingers?" Derek shook his head. "No fiber residue, no glue traces. I’m telling you, that gun was used by a damn ghost."

"Ghost’s a fitting name. Still, at least thanks to him, this arms case is nearly wrapped up."

Despite the mystery, the mood remained upbeat. In the corner, their team leader Faiston sat silently at his desk, a cigarette burning low between his lips. His light-blue shirt sleeves were rolled up, his chair positioned where he could observe the whole room. The central AC hissed above, blowing chilled air.

Jonathan glanced over. "Boss, you didn’t call us in last night. You look like you haven’t slept. Something bugging you?" He flipped through a file. "Besides the ghost, everyone else checks out. We found Lilith’s body yesterday. All that’s left is flipping the runners."

"If we know the ghost did it," Derek added, "why aren’t we locking him up? We don’t need charges to hold him."

Faiston finally put out his cigarette and took a sip of cold coffee. "Catching the big fish isn’t easy. Without solid evidence, we risk blowing the whole thing. Better to scoop up the minnows first."

"Minnows" referred to Adam Williams, the arms dealer. Everyone chuckled dryly. His syndicate had dozens of known felons under surveillance for years. To Faiston, though, Adam wasn’t the real prize.

Elsewhere

Windon sipped a strong Italian roast in a quiet café, his hands—too graceful for a killer—steady and pale. They were pianist’s hands, Bob thought. Elegant, calculated. Maybe to Windon, guns and pianos played the same role: rhythm, precision, timing.

Bob watched him. The kid looked paler than usual, maybe sick. Bob remembered a gang-related incident months ago in Vegas... dark places with no sunlight. He frowned.

Lake Shore Drive – District 20

Nestled between rundown buildings in a largely Hispanic neighborhood stood a well-kept structure. The noon sun was blazing, and the windows were curtained against the heat.

Bob’s home was luxurious by assassin standards. Gold drapes, dark floors. A bar instead of a desk. "Why didn’t you shoot him?"

Windon shifted on the plush sofa. "He didn’t shoot at me. Besides, you know I don’t kill federal agents unless absolutely necessary—especially not ones like him."

"Ones like who?" Bob poured a drink lazily, acting clueless.

No answer needed. Both knew Faiston Kade was relentless.

"Be careful, Ian," Bob said, eyes suddenly clear. "Cops like him are predators—hounds, hawks, hyenas. Miss one step, they’ll eat you alive."

"A ghost isn’t so easily devoured." Windon smirked. He wasn’t new to this game.

"I saw what you did," Bob continued. "You didn’t kill Barton. You left him alive—deliberately. A gift for Faiston. You wanted this arms case over quickly. But Faiston won’t thank you."

Windon gave a half-smile. Anyone else might believe it, but Bob knew better. He'd watched this kid grow into the myth. From Noey to Ian, from Nelson to Wellington—the Ghost could be anyone.

"How did you deal with Lilith’s body?" Windon asked as he stood to leave.

"Turned it in. Though I would’ve preferred feeding her to the dogs," Bob hiccupped. The temperature in the room dropped. Windon smiled—cold and sharp.

"Feeding her to the dogs? That’s ugly."

"Hey, kid, you’re the one who killed her. Don’t pretend you’ve got a conscience. People like us don’t do feelings. You feel, you die."

"I killed her. So what?"

Bob shrugged. "You saved yourself and kept the FBI from digging into your past. You knew what had to be done. I guess I don’t need to remind you."

Windon had killed Lilith out of sentiment—and out of necessity. He watched her bleed out at his feet, and didn’t blink. Cold or compassionate? Even Bob didn’t know after all these years.

Bob respected the Ghost—but also feared him. After retiring, Bob ran a safehouse for injured or fugitive assassins. His run-down hotel saw everything.

"I’m out," Windon said casually.

Bob didn’t ask where he was headed. But as Windon walked away, Bob called out: "Noey… you spared him today. Don’t count on him sparing you."

Windon grinned and kept walking. Outside, the sun blazed. But in Wind City, the weather could turn in an instant—just like fate.

He hadn’t expected to kiss an FBI agent that day. If Faiston weren’t with the Bureau, Windon might’ve pursued it. That man had the kind of body most didn’t.

Their kiss had been unexpectedly synchronized. Windon could tell from touch and taste whether someone matched him.

And Faiston matched.

If Barton’s men hadn’t stormed in, something explosive might’ve happened.

But Windon wasn’t stupid. Getting involved with a Fed broke every rule in the book. There was no benefit.

So why had he spared Faiston? It wasn’t because of his kissing skills.

Simple: he didn’t want to take the risk.

He wasn’t confident he could deliver a fatal shot—not yet. After recent injuries, his strength and vision hadn’t fully returned. Killing took a toll.

He glanced at his fingers—still unnaturally pale.

He’d left the FBI enough chaos to keep them busy. And Faiston Kade...

Windon looked up. The sky was a deep, cloudless blue. The heat was rising, just like the day it all started.

Like those hands on his body—hot, precise. He could blame the weather, sure. But maybe… maybe there was another reason.

One he wasn’t ready to face.

He sighed. Damn it. He’d let Faiston get under his skin. If not for his discipline, he would’ve been exposed that day.

And in his world, exposure meant death.