“Boss?”
“Chuck?!”

The shout came from both the ST team and Chuck’s men at once.
Darkness slammed into the room without warning. Afraid of hitting their own, both sides froze, guns held tight, breaths sharp. Then—a gunshot cracked the silence. The echo rolled through the lounge, and someone went down. More than one.

The shots came from Feston’s direction.
Everyone remembered—their leader had been with the Ghost. A ripple of unease swept through the team. Backup flashlights snapped on; beams cut across the gloom, colliding with the light spilling in from the doorway. Shapes began to emerge.

Feston tossed his built-in earpiece to the ground and turned toward them. His back became his face, and the room seemed to exhale.

All the way from the hospital to here, Feston had kept an open line to his team.
It was an improvised plan, hatched the moment Feng Zhannuo was knocked unconscious in the car explosion. Feston had mobilized his squad while the Ghost was out cold. The signal transmitter stayed on him; the miniature comm device sat tucked in his ear, letting him hear everything around him. When Chuck’s crew showed up, Feston had ditched his ID. Chuck, as it turned out, wasn’t stupid. Just in case, Feston had left the transmitter back at the clinic.

He’d been right. Chuck’s people had searched thoroughly, even using handheld scanners. Finding nothing suspicious, they’d let him walk straight into the bar that served as their temporary base. Using the police’s routine inspection as cover, he’d confirmed the location, scouted the numbers. He never contacted his team in front of the Ghost, but between his surroundings, travel times, and the direction Dr. John had pointed when calling the police, his squad had found this place in record time.

The operation was a success. Feston knew that. But under the lights, the look on his face was… unreadable.

Leaving his men and the local cops to secure the scene, Feston walked toward a body lying not far away.

“Torreon Chuck,” someone murmured. “Adam Williams’ arms supplier. Usually stays out of Chicago. Must’ve come for the safe. Boss, I think the Ghost was right—Chuck probably wanted what’s inside for more than just the money.”

With the wall lamps switched on, the room filled with a dim yellow glow. Even so, Jonathan’s classically chiseled, all-American face still carried traces of shock.

When the lights had gone out, the shots had come. Jonathan didn’t want to imagine what would have happened if the Ghost’s target had been their leader.

Chuck lay on the floor, a neat hole in the center of his brow. Blood ran down from the wound; his eyes were still open—not afraid, just stunned, as if he couldn’t believe that in that instant of darkness, death had found him.

It had happened barely a minute ago. Feston had seen the “Reaper’s” smile—right when the muzzle flashed. Brown hair framing a frozen wound, and that cold curve of the lips. The price Chuck paid for pistol-whipping the Ghost.

The Ghost had vanished, leaving three bullets behind as his calling card.

An eye for an eye. Blood for blood.

Chuck and his two closest men—all killed with single rounds to the forehead.

Derrick ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “When the boss called, I thought we could use Chuck to trace their arms route. If Chuck had known it was the Ghost—”

“Who would know?” Jonathan cut in. “The Ghost doesn’t walk around with ‘Ghost’ carved on his face. ‘Hey, look at me, I’m the Ghost.’” He mimed the words on his cheeks. It was a stupid joke, but no one laughed.

The window was wide open. Wind tugged the curtains, restless, like the Ghost himself—slipping through darkness after killing and disappearing.

Outside, the city glittered under the vast black sky. Finding that killer again would be impossible.

As the bodies were carried out, Derrick, ever observant, voiced the question on his mind. “Boss… if his target had been you just now, would you have… answered like last time? You know—made the bullet ricochet back at him?”

Around them was organized chaos—officers moving in and out, ST members securing details. A tight knot of core members stayed near Feston. He lit a cigarette, shook his head. “I wouldn’t shoot.”

“Why?!” Jonathan blurted. He’d sparred with Feston during training. He didn’t believe their leader couldn’t do it. Derrick looked just as shocked—if you don’t fight back, you could die.

Feston, in his iron-gray suit, answered, “Ricochets can hit the wrong target. You planning to die for nothing?”

They fell silent. In their rush to catch the Ghost, they’d forgotten the most basic rule—minimize casualties, keep everyone as safe as possible.

With that, Feston turned away, smoke trailing behind him like pale blue-gray ribbon in the light.

“I thought the boss only cared about catching suspects,” Jonathan murmured.
“Been with him for years,” Derrick said quietly, “but I’m starting to think we don’t really know him.”

No one disagreed. Feston Kaida always had walls around him. Outside of cases, he paid no attention to anyone, and no one reached him. Yet sometimes, something he said—or did—could ignite your blood, make you think dying for him wouldn’t be so bad.

When the cleanup was done, ST pulled out.

On the rooftop, a shadow crouched, unseen, a piece of the darkness itself.

What kind of man are you, Feston Kaida?

Feng Zhannuo had asked himself that countless times. He’d never found the answer. Maybe when you’ve seen too many sides of someone, words stop working.

Right now, it was just a question—pure and simple—sparked by the way Feston had protected his men.

The bar was sealed. The safe taken away. All evidence would be combed over. Chuck and his crew were dead. The night was finally over. Feng Zhannuo hadn’t shot Feston—but he’d killed his lead.

From Adam Williams to Torreon Chuck, Feng knew—even if Adam’s case closed, the FBI would never abandon this arms route. Now Chuck was gone; they’d be starting from scratch.

Flat on the rooftop, he scanned below, then slipped away into the night. He thought Feston would order a chase. But no. Maybe because he hadn’t aimed at the man. Like him, Feston played fair.

The Ghost always lingered where no one looked.
No one saw him. No one knew.

That was a lie.

At 4 a.m., Feng woke suddenly. His hand found his gun, and the first thing he saw was Bob’s wrinkled face.
“…If you don’t want me to shoot you, don’t wake me up like that again.” He shoved the gun under his pillow and flopped back down.

Bob edged back. “Ian… did you have a chance to kill him? And didn’t take it?”

“Is that a question?” Feng didn’t need to ask who “him” was. His eyes narrowed.

Something in that stare made Bob clamp his mouth shut. Silence stretched. Feng lay there like he’d fallen asleep, but Bob knew better. Ian could switch his days and nights at will, kill in darkness with a devil’s precision, rise early or late—whatever he pleased.

“I heard about what happened in the bar,” Bob said at last. “Don’t ask how. Men like me have our sources.”

“I didn’t ask. And we both know your source—Stephanie told you.” Feng pulled on a tank top over his bare torso. “Hecate’s got too much free time? Wasting manpower digging into this?”

Under the surface, the world was never still. Every country had its gangs, its cops, its drug and arms dealers, its bounty hunters—and its informants. Hecate was the biggest, most trusted intel network of them all.

Feng rarely used its resources. In his line of work, the rule was simple: the more you know, the sooner you die.

“She’s concerned about you. We’re all partners—she doesn’t want you getting killed.” Caught out, Bob didn’t deny it. Stephanie ran Hecate. A woman in her thirties, with the world’s largest intel network in her grip—she was no ordinary person.

“She says you shouldn’t have taken Lilith’s job. That you knew Kaida was trouble, you’d seen the ST files yourself—”

“When have you ever seen me go out of my way to provoke him?” Feng cut in.

“He’s the one chasing me.” Feng stepped out of bed in pajama pants and tank top. Rain pattered outside; the air was hot and heavy. He opened the window, let the spray hit his arm, then dropped to the floor for push-ups. He was no longer as gaunt as he’d been weeks ago.

Looking down, he missed the worry in Bob’s eyes. He wanted to warn him—this wasn’t the first time he’d spared Kaida. That never used to happen. Ian was the best because he never hesitated.

“How’s the body holding up? I heard your Vegas client was happy.” Bob changed the subject.

“What do you think? You know how tough that job was. I waited three days and nights.” Feng’s voice was steady, breath even as he kept pushing up from the floor. Vegas—the city of appetite—where he’d waited in an underground casino for the right moment, then done the job. Nothing more to say.

The laptop chimed. New email. Old client. A slow smile curved his lips.
“Bob, I’m going on vacation.”

“Good. Getting out of Chicago will do you good.”

But fate had other plans. Bob’s hope wouldn’t come true. And Feng Zhannuo never guessed how soon—and under what circumstances—he’d meet Feston Kaida again.