Feston Kaida never expected the cunning ghost to slip up like this. Everyone makes mistakes—even the most meticulous killer will eventually leave behind a crack, a trace. It’s only a matter of whether someone notices.

Even assassins make errors. Like this time—Feston had seen the ghost’s true face. But this slip-up? It was downright bizarre. No one had ever seen Death save a life, especially not an animal’s.

What kind of person was he, really? With flames still dancing behind him, Feston brushed ash from his jacket and shoved the man into the car.

No matter how you looked at it, the whole thing was absurd.

Dusk fell. A professional hitman and a federal agent both stood in the ER, getting scolded by a doctor, while a stray cat wandered around their feet.

The “correct” version of this scene would be: the man on the hospital bed aiming the gun he held moments ago at the agent in the gray suit flipping through medical records. If the FBI agent survived, he’d cuff the killer to the hospital bedframe.

But instead—Zain Nor sat calmly on the bed, gauze wrapped around his head. Feston stood before him, sleeves rolled up, blood on his collar. The elderly doctor scribbled notes into a chart, his name badge reading: JOHN.

“…Your body—what can I even say? Congrats on your successful diet?” Dr. John glanced at the form. “Mr. Ian Noy, your injuries aren’t severe, but you’re suffering from extreme hypoglycemia and malnutrition. Do you have anorexia?”

Under scrutiny, Zain shook his head. “Work’s been hectic. I’ve been forgetting to eat. That’s probably it.”

And that “work” could only mean one thing. Feston’s eyes darkened. Zain, half-turning toward him, added, “Had a rough assignment a few days ago.”

“A model, maybe? Out shooting on location?” the doctor asked.

Zain smiled. “Vegas. Like an oven out there—burned through all my energy.” He’d expected something like this. He’d been on vacation when he crossed paths with Lilith. Taking the contract to kill Adam Williams had been pure chance.

“Vegas? Seriously? Come on! That place is a sun-soaked furnace!”

Zain sighed in mock regret. “Unfortunately, I never left the hotel.”

“Ah, got it,” Dr. John said knowingly, his tone turning sly as he gave Feston a pointed once-over. “Well, of course. You could’ve just stayed in the room all day.”

Clearly misunderstood, Zain played along. “Wasn’t my idea. I didn’t really have a choice.”

“Well, listen. You’re young, healthy—but don’t overdo it. You push yourself like this and end up hypoglycemic, malnourished… You can’t just ‘do things’ and skip meals.” A deliberately vague cough followed. No judgment in his tone, just concern. Feston stood there, jaw tight, clearly marked as the bad influence.

Zain grinned and kept chatting. “Exactly. First thing I’ll do when I’m out—eat a real meal.” He hadn’t eaten for three days during that last job, lying motionless in a tunnel waiting to take one clean shot. Only water kept him alive.

Feston looked into his smiling face. Those icy blue eyes were devoid of warmth, cold as steel. If needed, Zain could kill this old man without hesitation.

“Alright, you’re done here. Get out,” Feston said. The curtain separating them from the rest of the ER swayed slightly. He stood arms crossed, tone clipped and firm.

Dr. John gave him a slow once-over. “Hot-headed, huh? You military?”

“Out.”

Feston flashed his badge. FBI.

The doctor realized he might’ve been wrong. He glanced toward Zain, who was holding a suit jacket. Zain dropped it, revealing a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. Dr. John’s face fell. Such a handsome, refined young man—a criminal in cuffs. Who would’ve guessed?

The tabby cat hopped onto the foot of the bed. It was the reason for the misunderstanding. It had snuck into the car with them, followed them into the clinic—probably lost, maybe once a pet.

Inside the curtained ER room, the truth surfaced. Zain hadn’t passed out from the blast. Hypoglycemia had brought him down. He lay still beside the IV stand. His features, on closer inspection, were striking—clearly mixed-race. Brown hair, ocean-blue eyes.

He could charm women with a smile. But when he pulled the trigger, that smile froze into death’s chill.

Feston studied him. Ghost or Ian Noy—this man was different from every criminal he’d captured.

“How long you been in this line of work?” Feston pulled up a chair, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

It felt like an interrogation. Zain knew he wasn’t leaving until the IV was done. “Since birth, give or take 28 years.”

“Give or take?”

“Don’t know my birthday. Not a crime, is it?”

So, raised in it from the start. Feston mused aloud. “Records show Lilith—before becoming a dancer—was in an orphanage. Burned down later, but the roster survived. There was a mixed-race kid named Noy.”

Zain had used the name Ian Noy on his medical form.

“So what?” he shrugged. “You saw it was self-defense. Planning to take me in?”

With Lilith dead and most orphanage records scattered, Feston had nothing solid. They both knew that.

Lilith’s death severed Zain’s link to Adam Williams. No concrete proof tied him to any murder.

“Don’t waste your time, Commander Kaida.” Zain leaned closer. “Even if you bring me in, 24 hours max. You know the rules. If you’re hoping to get something out of me, don’t bother.”

His tone shifted. The playful game was over. Smooth, low voice—chilling and deadly. The real Ghost.

The cat arched its back, hissed—fur bristling, fangs bared at Zain.

Feston remained calm. “Any criminal who lands in my hands doesn’t get a second chance.”

Grabbing Zain by the collar, he yanked him up, eyes flashing like he welcomed the challenge. Zain smiled with no warmth.

“Then let’s see who wins.”

Bob had been right—once Feston Kaida locked on, your only escape was a bullet.

A phone vibrated. Feston’s. He tossed Zain back on the bed. “I’m fine, Will,” he said, stepping aside.

“Don’t wait. Go home. I’ve got something to handle.”

His gaze never left Zain.

Zain smirked. “Will—that blond guy? How’s he in bed?”

Then, louder: “Sweetheart, your lover’s with me now. He didn’t want me going alone…”

Feston silenced him with a hand over his mouth. Whatever Will was saying, Feston’s expression darkened. There was emotion there. Zain’s eyes glinted with malicious joy. He licked Feston’s palm.

The wet tip of his tongue dragged slowly across the dry skin. Zain looked up through lowered lashes, the veins on his neck visible under pale skin. Tall and lean, compact muscles wrapped around his frame like a predator in repose.

Feston said nothing, distracted, and hung up.

“You shoot people mid-coitus, now you tease me? What’s your endgame, Ghost? Or should I call you Ian Noy?”

His tone dripped with accusation—as if Zain were seducing him.

Zain retracted his tongue. “FBI golden boy. ST team leader. Nice house, nice car, perfect background. Me? I’m cuffed here, probably headed for prison. What do you think I’m doing?”

Ah. So that’s it.

“You’re jealous,” Feston said, brows lifting slightly. “You envy my life.”

His gaze—pitying, like a cop looking at a doomed criminal—pierced Zain. No one had ever looked at him like that. He was usually the one delivering that look.

“Feston Kaida! Not everyone is born lucky. Not everyone is you!”

The ocean in Zain’s eyes turned stormy.

“You’re everyone’s hero. Commander. Leader. Solving cases is your thrill. But don’t kid yourself.” He gave a cold laugh. “It’s not about justice. You call it a win when you catch someone, send them to prison…”

The undercurrent of his voice surged.

“You’re just enjoying the hunt. Don’t pretend to be the good guy. We’re not so different, you and I.”