(A quiet room in an undisclosed Tharosin branch.)
The walls were concrete, cold. A single screen glowed on the far side of the room. Jonathan stood before it, hands behind his back.
His reflection hovered faintly in the black glass of the console—his face worn, unreadable.
A soft click, then a mechanical voice:
"Secure Channel Established."
The screen stayed blank — no face, no feed.
Only a modulated voice poured through.
Not loud. Not raised. But precise — like something carved rather than spoken.
Low, refined, with a calm that was somehow colder than fury.
"They weren't supposed to be there."
Not a question. Not a demand. A statement — but weighted like a warning.
Jonathan didn't answer right away.
He adjusted his breath.
"No, they weren't. Alex changed his route. Ten minutes early."
"His family was in the car."
There was the faintest twitch in Jonathan's jaw. His fingers curled slightly, unnoticed at his side.
"They are unharmed. The strike team pulled out as soon as the family was identified."
"Late."
A silence hung between them, heavy with things unsaid.
"This was your strategy. You gave the all-clear."
The accusation wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be. The line hissed softly for a moment.
"I don't tolerate miscalculations, Jonathan. And I don't burn houses with children inside."
"This one wasn't part of the data. The variable came from Alex."
"Then find out who altered the data. And next time, don't bring me just a clean report — bring me truth."
"I take full—"
"Don't."
The interruption wasn't sharp — it was final. Quiet. Absolute.
"Just fix it."
The voice shifted lower, like smoke curling beneath a locked door.
"We don't strike twice."
Jonathan shoulders tight beneath the tailored grey. The faint green light from the console flickered against the lines beneath his eyes.
The line hummed softly. Then.
"Remind your team: We chase the guilty. Not ghosts. Not girls with ribboned shoes."
Another beat.
And just like that, the softness vanished.
"What about the emblem?"
Jonathan shifted.
"One emblem was planted on the west pillar, which firefighter picked up and Rivas intercepted. Second was near the front gate — that one drew eyes. A firefighter flagged it before Rivas arrived. Media picked it up within minutes."
"Good."
The voice returned to something colder. A quiet control sharp as flint.
"Let it be seen. Let it breathe long enough to echo."
Jonathan nodded slightly. "They've already started whispering. Disinformation is in place."
There was a pause.
"We'll feed it," He said flatly. "Whispers are more useful than noise."
There was a short silence again. This time heavier.
"No civilians next time. No detours."
Jonathan lowered his eyes.
"It won't happen again."
Click.
The call ended. The screen went dark.
He remained still. The green light on the wall blinked once… then again.
His hands unclasped slowly. Chill of the silence crept up the back of his neck.
Then his hand moved to a separate, encrypted device — flat, black, untraceable.
He typed:
"Case unresolved. Heading in. Prep strategy vault."
He didn't wait for a response.
He stepped back, sliding the thin earpiece into a side drawer, his hands moved with the stillness of habit — lifting his coat, buttoning it smoothly. But his expression had changed.
The strategist was gone.
Something colder had taken its place.
He left the room, descended two floors through a steel-lined hallway, and pressed his palm to an unmarked panel. The wall gave way like water, revealing a room behind it.
Stark. White. Silent.
This was not a place for reflection.
The air smelled of latex and sterilization. Cabinets lined the wall — labeled in code. On the central table: tools for transformation, mirrors that showed no truth, skin molds and bone stretchers, silicon, voice grit patches, disposable lenses.
Jonathan didn't hesitate.
He peeled off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves. Opened the nearest drawer and pulled out the face kit. Chin adjusters. Brow stretch. Nasal pads.
No mirrors. Only the pale light of reconstruction.
In fifteen minutes, the man known as Jonathan was gone.
The new man looked five years older, wiry and sun-weathered. The corners of his mouth curved downward in permanent disapproval. Eyes dull gray. Hairline receded and streaked.
The kind of face you apologized to when bumping into on the street, and forgot the moment you turned away.
He stepped back from the table, pulled on an ordinary leather jacket. A worn bag. Wiped the last bit of adhesive from his wrist and checked his palm.
A small black flame tattoo barely visible under the skin. Hidden in the web of veins.
And paused only once — in front of a locked drawer.
He opened it. Inside, a flat black disk: the Tharosin emblem — this one unmarked, unworn, unused.
He held it in his palm. Not to wear. Just to remember.
Then he slid it back.
A deep breath. A shallow voice — altered by the prosthetic pads. Dry, dissonant.
"No more mistakes."
He glanced once toward the ceiling — toward everything that still lay above.
Then turned, and vanished into the tunnels below the Tharosin compound.
Not Jonathan.
Not strategist.
Just another ghost…
Carving justice through shadow.
......
Streetlights shimmered like sleepy stars, and the wind carried a restless whisper that lingered longer than spring should allow.
Jonathan drove alone.
Not as Jonathan.
Not as a strategist.
Just another nameless man behind the wheel of a quiet, gray sedan.
The meeting had ended an hour ago — backroom talk, gravel voices, chalk-white plans drawn on a warehouse wall. The fire was just the beginning. Now came the unraveling.
He turned down a quieter road, headlights casting long beams across cracked concrete. That's when he saw.
A girl standing at the bus stop.
Not moving. Not scrolling. Just… waiting. Still.
The glow from the streetlight spilled over her like a faded photograph — Sarah, leaning slightly against the cold glass of the bus stop enclosure, arms crossed, a sketchbook tucked beneath her elbow like a shield. Her scarf fluttered slightly in the wind. There was no one else in sight.
He slowed instinctively.
His wrist flicked upward, eyes catching the time: 00:00.
Midnight. Sharp as fate.
The car eased to a soft stop in front of the stand.
He rolled the window down a little, his voice just enough to be heard over the wind.
"Excuse me. You alright, miss?"
Sarah straightened at the unexpected voice. She stepped back instinctively, clutching her sketchbook closer, uncertainty blooming in her posture.
"Fine," she replied tightly. "I'm just waiting."
He nodded, glancing down the stretch of empty road. No lights. No buses. Nothing coming.
"It's late," he said after a pause. "If you want a ride—just to a safer stop, I can drop you."
A beat.
She shook her head, her voice quiet but firm.
"I'm good. Thank you."
And she meant it. She didn't trust him. Or anyone. Not at this hour. Not in this world.
He didn't drive off.
Instead, he glanced at his wristwatch. Midnight exactly. And then at the flowering tree beside the stop — white blooms catching the wind, falling like slow rain.
"You're smart to be cautious," he said finally. "If my daughter were standing out here at this hour, I'd want someone to offer her a safe ride. Not force it—just offer."
Sarah's eyes flicked toward him now, less guarded. Still wary, but… listening.
"Look," he continued. "The city gets colder after midnight. The wrong kind of people start getting brave. You don't owe me anything. I'll drive slow, window down if it makes you feel safer. You can get out anytime you want."
Then, a pause.
"Or we can sit here and wait together. Up to you."
There was something in that — the offering of time, not control — that softened the air between them.
Sarah bit her lip, eyes drifting down the dark street once more. No bus in sight. No cars. No shops open. Just cold wind licking at her coat hem and a long night that didn't seem interested in ending.
She stepped closer to the car, uncertainty still in her voice.
"You said you're heading toward—?"
"Downtown," he replied. Calm. Measured. "But I can adjust."
She hesitated, then opened the door and slipped inside, still half-holding her breath—
Her sketchbook in her lap, her fingers tense around the strap of her bag.
He drove — slow and steady, beneath the flowering trees, with the windows half down and spring brushing in.
Jonathan glanced at her from the corner of his eye — just once. She hadn't unclenched her bag strap yet.
He kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting lightly near the indicator.
"Which direction should I take?"
She looked over, unsure for a beat.
"West end," she said finally. "Near Willow Square."
"Alright."
He flicked the turn signal, easing the car smoothly around the next curve.
Another few seconds passed. She spoke again.
"You don't have to go all the way. Just the roundabout would be fine."
"You'll still have to walk alone from there," he said gently. "It's no trouble."
A pause.
"Sometimes it costs nothing to make someone else's walk a little shorter."
A gust of wind fluttered the edge of her scarf against the car window.
"You a poet or something?" she said, not unkindly — just wary, still.
He gave a quiet chuckle.
"No. Just old enough to wish someone had done the same for my daughter someday."
She turned her head slightly at that — just slightly.
"How old is she?"
"Six."
"She must be waiting for you at home."
"No," he said, voice even. "Not tonight."
She looked at him now, the silence growing more human, less heavy.
"Look," he added, keeping his eyes on the road, "you can open the door anytime. I won't take offense. But as long as you're here, I'll make sure you're not standing out there in the cold while spring pretends to be kind."
That pulled something like a breath of laughter from her.
"You talk like someone out of an old book."
"Maybe," he said, glancing at the soft petals stuck to the windshield. "But old books know a thing or two about people."
She glanced at him — just briefly.
"You never said your name," she murmured.
He didn't look at her. His eyes stayed on the road, hands steady on the wheel. A soft breath passed before he answered.
"William."
A pause.
"That's all?"
"It's enough, isn't it?" he said, with a small, unreadable smile.
She tilted her head slightly, unsure whether he was joking or just private.
But she nodded. Somehow, it was enough.
"Thanks… William."
"You're welcome," he replied. "And you?"
"Sarah."
A beat passed.
"That's a good name," he said gently. "Hope you never have to wait in the dark again."
She blinked at that — but said nothing.
He simply drove, letting the tires whisper across the empty street — and somewhere behind his still face, beneath a face that wasn't even his… his heart kept time with the minute hand of a midnight watch.