The Puppeteers
The city skyline gleamed like glass knives under the moonlight.
Damien stood atop a rooftop overlooking downtown—the air thick with fog and a strange quiet that didn't belong in a city so alive. Neon signs blinked below him. Horns and sirens hummed in the distance. But here, at this height, it was as if the world held its breath.
Jax leaned against the metal door behind him, wiping sweat and ash from his brow. "Boss. We lost three tail cars getting out of the docks. Whoever sent those cleaners, they're better equipped than anything we've faced before."
Damien didn't answer. His hands rested on the railing, fingers tense.
He wasn't just thinking.
He was feeling.
The kind of feeling he hadn't had since the day he learned about the betrayal.
Something old. Something primal.
A warning.
"They're scared," he murmured.
Jax frowned. "Of what?"
Damien turned slowly, his eyes gleaming in the darkness.
"Of what I'll do when I find them."
The Invitation
Three hours later, Damien sat alone inside a dimly lit lounge in the underground levels of the Black Cross Hotel—an old safehouse built during the wars. The walls were reinforced steel. No signals in or out. No surveillance. No betrayal.
Only power.
The kind that whispered instead of shouted.
He had just lit a cigarette when the door creaked open.
Elliot entered, cane in hand—not because he needed it, but because it made people underestimate him.
"They've reached out," he said, lowering himself into the leather armchair across from Damien.
"Who?"
Elliot stared at him for a long moment before answering.
"The Council."
The words dropped like stone into water, rippling through Damien's spine.
"I thought they were a myth."
Elliot chuckled dryly. "That's what they want you to believe. But they're real. And they've been running this world long before your father stole the empire."
Damien's voice was low. Controlled. Dangerous. "Why contact you now?"
"Because you're upsetting the balance."
Elliot reached into his coat and dropped a sleek black envelope onto the table. No markings. No return.
Only a wax seal.
A serpent eating its own tail.
Damien stared at it.
"You know what this is?" Elliot asked quietly.
"No."
"It's not a threat." He paused. "It's a summons."
The Circle of Masks
They met in an abandoned cathedral at the edge of the city—the kind of place where secrets clung to the walls like cobwebs and time seemed to bleed.
Damien arrived first.
Jax wanted to come, but Damien refused. This wasn't a battle. Not yet.
He walked the aisle of broken pews alone, the echo of his boots sharp against the cracked marble.
They waited for him at the altar.
Seven figures, robed in black, faces hidden behind silver masks. Each one engraved with a different symbol—fire, wind, blood, chains, time, shadow, and bone.
None of them spoke at first.
Then the one with the mask of chains stepped forward.
"You are not meant to be here."
Damien didn't flinch. "And yet, here I am."
A second figure—wind—spoke. "You've disrupted the pact."
Damien's eyes narrowed. "What pact?"
Silence.
Then bone stepped forward.
"The pact that ensured the Voss family would remain under our guidance. Your father agreed. He knew the cost."
Damien's voice was cold. "And what was that cost?"
The figure didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Damien already knew.
"My mother."
A flicker of tension passed through the room. The wind stirred. Fire's hands clenched.
Elliot had been right.
She hadn't just disappeared.
She had been offered.
The Empire Beneath
"What are you?" Damien asked, voice low. "Some hidden government? A cabal of billionaires? Cultists?"
The figure with the mask of shadow stepped forward.
"All of those things. And none."
Their voice was neither male nor female. Ageless. Inhuman.
"We are the stewards of legacy. The architects of balance. Every dynasty that has risen… has done so with our blessing. And every one that has fallen… has fallen by our will."
Damien's fists curled.
"So you're gods now?"
"Gods?" Fire laughed bitterly. "No. Just men who remembered how to become myths."
They circled him now.
Seven shadows against the altar of a dying faith.
"You were not meant to ascend," said blood. "You were a child of broken lineage. An heir to chaos."
"But here you are," said time, stepping closer. "The shadow that escaped the script."
"Which is why we offer you a choice," said chains.
"Join us," said bone.
"Or die," finished shadow.
The Devil's Smile
Damien looked around the circle.
Every instinct told him to pull the knife hidden under his sleeve, bury it in one of their throats, and fight his way out.
But he didn't move.
Not yet.
He let the moment breathe.
Let the silence stretch long enough for them to get uncomfortable.
Then… he smiled.
The kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes.
The kind of smile wolves make before they tear out your throat.
"You think I want to join your rotting little cult?" he asked softly. "You think I care about your legacy? Your balance?"
He took a step forward, into the circle.
Into the lion's den.
"I'm not here to serve you. I'm here to dismantle you."
One heartbeat.
Two.
And then shadow moved fast—too fast—drawing a blade from beneath their cloak.
But Damien was faster.
The knife was already in his hand, flicked upward in a blur of silver.
It stopped at the throat of the nearest figure—blood—pressing just hard enough to draw a line of red across the mask.
"Kill me," he whispered, "and you'll never control what's coming."
They didn't move.
Because they didn't know what he meant.
And that terrified them.
The Ghost Protocol
He left the cathedral alive.
Which was already a message.
Elliot waited in the alley behind, leaning on the cane again like the performance artist he was.
"Well?"
"They offered me a seat at the table."
Elliot raised a brow. "And?"
"I told them I'm building my own."
They walked in silence for a moment, the cold wind curling through the night like a whisper of what was to come.
Then Elliot spoke.
"If they know you won't bow, they'll destroy everything you love. Every friend. Every ally. Every piece of your history."
Damien looked straight ahead.
Letting the city fill his lungs.
"They already tried."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a device—a microdrive.
The one he'd stolen from the lab on the island.
He handed it to Elliot.
"What's this?"
"Insurance."
Elliot plugged it into his reader. The screen lit up.
Coordinates. Audio logs. Redacted names. Dates. Codes.
And one file labeled only: GHOST PROTOCOL—V.V.
Elliot's eyes widened. "Where did you get this?"
Damien's voice was ice.
"The same place they buried my mother."
The Coming Storm
Later that night, Damien stood once again on the rooftop.
Same city.
Different war.
Below, the streets pulsed with unknowing lives. People who thought empires were built by elections and ruined by greed.
They had no idea.
But they would.
Soon.
Because the truth wasn't just forbidden.
It was alive.
It had a name.
And that name was Damien Voss.
He pulled the photograph of his mother from his pocket, eyes scanning her face one more time.
Alive.
Hidden.
Targeted.
"Hang on," he whispered. "I'm coming."
And this time… he wasn't coming alone.