*March 29. 11:30am*
The city lights blinked lazily as the world outside Tony's reach moved on like nothing happened. But behind the walls of Bellingham power? The real game was only just warming up.
Back in the Bellingham mansion, Aaron—Tony's butler—rested. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of monitors lining the desk. Aaron sat shirtless, wounds freshly wrapped, coffee in hand, painkillers untouched. His fingers tapped the keyboard like a mad pianist.
"Why would Master Tony bench me? Benched my ass," he muttered.
Screens showed tower cams, call logs, employee access cards… all normal, all clean.
(He refused to stay down. He wanted to fight alongside Tony.)
Too clean.
Then he saw it—a timestamp freeze. Five minutes gone from the north annex security cam. The same floor the fight happened.
"Glitch?" he whispered.
He zoomed in. Pixel noise, like digital static. He reached for the server logs—
POP.
All screens flashed white. Then black.
ALERT: Stay out of this, soldier.
Aaron froze, coffee cup trembling in his grip.
Back in his sleek fortress of an office, the top floor of Bellingham Tower—a palace of steel and silence—Tony sipped his coffee slow. The city sprawled beneath him, glittering like a lie.
A knock.
Just one.
His assistant, Rey, entered. Pale.
"Sir… this came. No name. No courier trail."
She placed a small black envelope on his desk. Heavy.
Tony opened it. A burner phone… and a folded note in sharp handwriting.
You don't know who your enemies are. Yet.
Before he could breathe, the burner buzzed once.
He answered.
A voice came through. Low. Masked. Like it was echoing through a cave.
"Dent is currently your biggest problem. You think you're running the game, but they've been playing you for months."
Tony didn't flinch. "Then show me."
"Meet me. The Mirage. Tonight. Come alone."
The day ran quickly, as if it was waiting for Tony to meet the mystery contact.
The Mirage was a high-class jazz lounge built under the city, deep enough that no signal survived. Tony walked in smooth, draped in a long black coat, burner in one pocket, blade in the other. No gun. Too messy.
The hostess nodded without question. She knew the face.
"VIP room. Booth seven."
He stepped into velvet and shadows.
A hooded figure waited. Female maybe. Slim. But still unreadable.
No greeting. No drink offered. Just a flash drive slid across the table.
"Watch it when you're safe," the voice said, digitally scrambled.
Tony raised a brow. "Who are you?"
The voice hissed back.
"Someone who used to believe in Bellingham. Now I just believe in staying alive."
"What's the play?"
"The server hit? That was noise. Big noise. In 50 days, they'll flip this place inside out. From the top down."
Tony leaned in, eyes cold.
"They?"
The figure laughed—dry, bitter.
"Dent. And maybe someone way closer than you think."
"Fifty days? That's too much time for a hit, ain't it?" Tony asked.
"Yep. It is. But of course, if you're planning to attack the Bellingham Tower again, you have to be prepared."
Tony looked at the mystery person. "True."
"The tower was attacked not too long ago, right, Tony? I'm sure security measures are way up to prevent another one. Plus, it happened from the inside."
"Your dad built this from hard work, smarts, and investment. From a thousand-dollar startup to a billion-dollar empire. Bellingham Industries is the biggest in the world. Cars, phones, hell, you guys invest in the global economy—even crypto. You even have your own coin. Name it, they make it."
"So that's what they're after?" Tony asked, eyes narrowed.
"Yep and nope."
Tony leaned back. "What do you mean by that?"
"Well, lemme give you a hint. In these 50 days, they'll try to access the tower, find weak points, gather data. The moment they get enough access? They strike. They want to bankrupt Bellingham, drain every cent, and funnel it into this massive AI project they're building."
"This is all I can say now. The rest? Up to you."
They vanished into the hallway. No goodbye.
Back at the office, Tony slid the flash drive into his tablet. The screen lit up with a timestamped vid file.
He hit play.
A long, oak table. Leather chairs. A private room deep inside Bellingham Holdings. Secret-level deep.
Seven people sat around the table. All suits. All shadows.
But one—one face was blurred out. The leader.
"We've let him play boss long enough. The heir thinks he's untouchable. Make it look like an accident."
Tony's fists clenched.
"Fifty days. That's how long we need. After that… no more Bellingham blood in this company."
"Betrayal. Setup. I have to deal with all this? This is bullshit."
He paused the video. Heart ice cold now.
"This ain't just a game anymore."
The skyline burned orange as dusk crawled in. The office was quiet, too quiet. Only the low hum of electricity and Tony's breathing.
He pulled out an old phone from his desk. Looked like junk. But it wasn't.
Only two people had this number.
He hit SEND.
It rang twice. A voice answered.
"Authorization code?"
Tony spoke smooth, calm, deadly.
"Black Phantom. Level 7. Initiate fallback protocol."
Silence. Then:
"Confirmed. Ghosts will rise within 100 hours."
(Well....Time to start makin serious plans.)
He stood, staring out the window, face unreadable.
Enemies in suits. Betrayals in boardrooms. And a war no one saw coming.
He whispered, just loud enough for fate to hear—
"Y'all wanna play games in the dark? Cool. Just know... I was born in it."