Carlo's fingers moved like a surgeon's — fast, precise, fingers dancing over the battered keyboard as lines of code unspooled across the monitor. The server room in the hideout smelled of ozone and stale coffee; the only light came from the screens, painting everyone's faces the sickly blue of the net.
Mostang and Diana sat in the next room, listening to the quiet clicks. Valeria paced, knife forgotten, watching levels and numbers scroll. Kane hovered half a step behind Emma, eyes wide with something close to awe.
On the screen: firewall alarms, countermeasures, a dozen encrypted locks. Carlo broke them one after another — not with brute force, but with patience and cruelty: a dead man's password here, an overlooked backdoor there, an exploit Vencor never thought to patch. Every time a lock dropped, Carlo closed his eyes for a beat — seeing his wife's face before he kept going.
"Got it," he breathed finally. "Access to the vault nodes. I can move funds… but it's risky. He'll notice the ledger inconsistencies."
Emma didn't flinch. Her voice was calm as stone. "Move it."
Carlo's fingers stuttered for a second, then flew. Transfers queued, routed through shell companies, then through a dozen ghost accounts before bleeding out into charities, orphan funds, small clinics, and food networks Carlo had mapped from old intel — the ones Vencor's influence had starved and crushed for years.
Mostang watched as the progress bar crawled toward completion. "You sure we're not making it traceable?" he asked, wary.
Carlo shook his head. "I masked the trails with micro-transactions and layered withdrawals. It'll take time for him to untangle it. He'll see the money moving, but not where it ends for a while."
Emma watched the final confirmation ping. She closed her eyes for a breath, the weight of what they'd just done settling like cold iron in her chest.
"Distribute to:
— Orphanage network, sector 7 and 12.
— Homeless shelters across the east quadrant (supply codes A3–A9).
— Medical fund for Celeste's list.
— Wire to informant channels — give them a little breathing room." Her voice was methodical, vacant of pride.
The transfers hit. Carlo exhaled so hard he seemed to deflate. "It's done. Millions moved," he said, voice rough. "He'll scream. He'll hunt. But for now — they'll eat."
A montage collapsed the next hours into a few quiet vignettes:
— A small orphanage in Sector 12: a caretaker opens a bank app, eyes widen, then tremble into grateful sobs as she realizes the crippling debt has been cleared. Children crowd around a tin of new bread like it's gold.
— A soup kitchen that closed last month reopens: volunteers cry as they watch boxes of supplies arrive unexpectedly, food warm and steaming, enough to feed twice the usual crowd.
— Celeste receives a message with a transfer confirmation — medicine arriving for clinics that had been waiting for months. She slumps onto a crate, laughing and crying at once.
— On the street, a man who'd slept for weeks on a cardboard box finds a voucher tucked under his blanket — food and shelter for a week. He weeps openly, the city indifferent but kinder for one small hour.
Back in the hideout, Valeria grinned like a child. Kane's chest swelled with something like pride. Mostang tapped his cigarette on the table and nodded once. Carlo sat back, face slack with a grief-tinged relief.
Emma remained still, watching the ripple she'd started. She felt no triumph — only a cold steadiness, and a small, dangerous satisfaction that their actions had meaning beyond blood.
Diana moved to her side, voice soft. "You saved a lot of people today."
Emma looked at her—at the faces in the room that had become a strange, battered family—and for the first time she let a shadow of something that could have been hope cross her features.
"Not saved," she corrected, quiet. "Bought them time."
Outside, somewhere in Vencor's towers, alarms would be waking men who hadn't expected to lose money to ghosts. Plans would twist. Fingers would point. Vencor would feel the hit — and he would know who touched his ledger.
Emma listened to the hideout breathe around her, and as Carlo wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, she turned toward the window. The city glittered and seethed below. The next move had already begun in the dark.
The next morning, the hideout was silent — the kind of silence that only follows exhaustion. Everyone was sprawled across couches, mattresses, and floors, half-covered in blankets and fatigue. The air still smelled faintly of smoke, metal, and Celeste's healing herbs.
Emma opened her eyes. Dawn light cut through the cracked window, dust particles floating like lazy snow. She sat up quietly, her hair falling over her face, the faint ache of sleepless nights tugging at her temples.
She glanced around — Diana asleep with her arm over her face, Valeria curled up near the window, Kane snoring faintly, and Carlo hunched forward on a chair, still half-awake but defeated by exhaustion.
Emma stood without a word. Her boots made no sound on the cold floor as she slipped her jacket over her shoulders and stepped outside.
The air hit her — crisp, fresh, carrying that faint scent of morning dew mixed with city dust. The streets were quiet. The chaos of last night felt like it belonged to another world.
She walked until she reached a small park — half-abandoned, the grass uneven and wild. There was a wooden bench near a broken fountain. Emma sat there, elbows on her knees, hands clasped.
Birds hopped between the bushes nearby — small, unbothered, free. One landed close to her boot, tilting its head curiously. Emma's eyes softened for a second.
The morning breeze brushed through her hair as she exhaled. Her reflection flickered in the still water beside her — tired eyes, bandaged arm, faint scars hidden beneath her collar.
She sat there, quiet. No orders to give. No plans. No blood. Just the faint hum of life around her.
For once, Emma Elarat was still.
Suddenly, something approached
A little girl, couldn't have been more than seven — messy hair, dirt on her shoes, holding a half-eaten bun in one hand. She looked at Emma with that kind of innocent curiosity only children have.
"Why are you sad?" she asked softly, her voice almost blending with the rustling leaves.
Emma blinked, a little taken off guard. She tilted her head slightly, the faintest hint of surprise in her expression.
"…I'm not sad," Emma said quietly, her tone calm, steady — but not convincing.
The girl frowned, stepping closer. "You look like the people who cry when no one's looking."
Emma's eyes flicked toward the child, then to the bird still perched near her foot. She didn't answer immediately — her gaze distant for a moment.
Finally, she exhaled, turning her face back to the girl. "I'm fine. Really."
The girl stared for a few more seconds, as if trying to read Emma's soul — then smiled anyway. "Okay! If you say so."
She reached into her pocket, pulling out a tiny candy, unwrapped it, and placed it in Emma's palm.
"It helps when I'm sad," she said proudly.
Emma looked down at the candy for a long moment — then gave the smallest, almost invisible smile. "...Thank you."
The girl grinned wide, waved, and ran off toward the street.
Emma stayed sitting there, the candy in her hand, eyes fixed on the horizon.
For a brief moment, the cold world around her felt a little warmer.
---
The little girl came running back, tugging her mother's hand eagerly.
"Mom! Mom! That's my new friend I met a few minutes ago!" she said with that pure, childish excitement that couldn't be faked.
Her mother looked up — her face calm but cautious — and followed her daughter's pointing finger.
Emma sat on the bench, posture straight, eyes calm as always. The morning breeze carried a soft sway through her hair. She didn't move, just watched silently as they approached.
The mother smiled politely at first. "Oh, really? Your new friend, huh?" she said gently, glancing at Emma. "Thank you for keeping her company."
Emma nodded slightly. "She was… kind," she said quietly.
The woman smiled faintly. But then, her eyes froze. Recognition flickered — she looked closer. Her expression stiffened.
"You…" she whispered. Her voice trembled, barely audible.
Emma's gaze met hers, steady, emotionless — but behind it, there was the faintest flicker of realization.
The woman's lips parted, her voice breaking. "You're that girl… the one who…"
The little girl looked up at her mother, confused. "Mom?"
The mother's eyes filled with tears she couldn't stop. Her hand trembled as she held her daughter closer.
"You killed my brother," she said, her tone full of restrained pain.
The park suddenly felt colder.
Emma didn't deny it. Didn't speak. She just sat there — motionless, staring at the woman who shook before her.
The little girl looked between them, not understanding the weight of what hung in the air. "Mom? What's wrong?"
The mother didn't answer — she turned, holding her daughter tightly, and walked away quickly.
Emma stayed seated. Silent.
Her eyes lowered to her open hand — the candy the little girl had given her still resting there, untouched.
She closed her fingers slowly around it. Her gaze turned distant again.
Even when you try to do good… the ghosts still find you.
-----
The sun had shifted, hanging low and soft.
Emma was still there — on the same bench, her elbows resting on her knees, eyes fixed on the sky as if she were searching for something beyond the clouds.
Footsteps approached softly behind her. Tiny ones.
"Hey…" a small, shy voice said.
Emma blinked and turned her head slightly. The same little girl stood there.
"My mom's crying," the girl said quietly, her voice trembling a little. "She doesn't know I came out."
Emma looked at her for a moment. The silence lingered. The wind brushed strands of her dark hair across her face.
"…You should go home," Emma said softly. Her tone wasn't cold — it was tired, heavy.
The little girl frowned. "But she's sad. I don't know why she's crying so much."
Emma looked down for a second. Her fingers tightened slightly against the bench. She took a slow breath before answering.
"She's crying… because she lost someone," Emma said, her voice calm but carrying a weight the girl couldn't understand.
The girl tilted her head. "Like when my fish died?"
Emma gave a faint, almost invisible smile. "Something like that."
The girl looked down, then back up. "But if she's sad, maybe I should make her happy."
"You should," Emma said, her gaze returning to the fading sky. "That's what good people do."
The girl nodded slowly. "Okay… I'll go home then."
She took a few steps, then turned back one last time. "Will you be okay, miss?"
Emma didn't answer right away. She just gave her a faint nod, eyes still on the horizon.
"…Yeah," she whispered. "I'll be fine."
The little girl smiled softly and ran off, the sound of her footsteps fading down the path.
Emma stayed there, unmoving — staring at the dying light of the sky.
She exhaled, a faint whisper escaping her lips.
"Good people… huh."
Emma's boots scraped against the gravel as she walked away from the garden path, the last of the sunset bleeding into the horizon. The streets were quiet—too quiet. A cold breeze brushed past, carrying the faint rustle of leaves and the echo of children's laughter far away.
She stopped. Her gaze drifted upward, eyes tracing the deep orange clouds melting into dusk. For a moment, she let herself breathe, calm, almost peaceful.
Then—
A hand landed on her shoulder. Firm. Heavy.
Emma's muscles tightened instantly. Her instincts screamed.
She began to turn—
CRACK!
A brutal punch smashed into her cheek, snapping her head sideways. Blood spit from her lips as her body stumbled back, boots sliding across the dirt.
She caught herself mid-fall, one hand braced against the ground. Her hair hung loose over her face, her breathing sharp and uneven.
"...You again," she muttered, voice low and cold.
From the fading light, a tall figure stepped forward — his expression unreadable, eyes sharp and calm as steel.
Shadow.
He cracked his knuckles, the faint smirk returning to his face. "Didn't think you'd still be alive after our last little dance."
Emma wiped the blood from her lip with her thumb, her dark eyes locking onto his. The calm in her stare made the air heavier.
"Guess you don't learn," she said flatly.
Shadow tilted his head, amused. "I could say the same."
Emma shifted her stance slightly—feet grounding into the dirt, shoulders low.
The silence between them thickened, the wind dying completely.
Then Shadow's grin widened.
"Round two?"
Emma's eyes narrowed. Her voice came out like a blade.
"…Round two."
He lunged first.
The ground exploded beneath their feet as they collided—fists, kicks, and sparks of sheer violence echoing through the quiet night.
Chapter end