Berlin, 2:37 a.m.
Rain fell in thin silver lines, streaking down the glass of the twenty-first-floor window. Below, the city breathed in slow mechanical rhythm—headlights flashing across puddled streets, the hum of trains echoing in the fog. The night smelled of wet steel and burnt coffee.
Ethan Cross adjusted his tie in front of the mirror. The reflection that stared back at him was immaculate: clean-shaven, gray suit, calm eyes. Everything about him looked ordinary—too ordinary. That was the point. The world believed he was Damian Voss, a security consultant who handled risk assessments for corporations. They didn't know that every motion, every word, was part of an identity built from ashes.
He tightened the knot, studying the faint scar along his jawline. Prague had given him that scar—and taken everything else.
Five years since that night. Five years since his team's screams vanished under gunfire. Five years since the Agency erased his name from every database.
Behind him, a digital clock ticked quietly. 02:38. The sound was soft but insistent, like a heartbeat reminding him he was still alive when he shouldn't be.
The encrypted phone on the counter buzzed once. A single message appeared in pale green text:
> CLIENT READY. TRANSFER IN 10 MINUTES.
Ethan exhaled, the air trembling faintly. Tonight's client was supposed to deliver data—information about Specter Division, the ghost organization he'd hunted for years. They said Specter was a myth, a bedtime story for spies who needed monsters to blame. But Ethan had seen the bodies. He'd buried his team. Specter was no myth.
He holstered a suppressed pistol beneath his jacket, slipped two micro-drives into his pocket, and glanced again at the mirror.
"Time to disappear," he murmured.
---
Tempelhof District — 3:12 a.m.
The warehouse crouched near the abandoned airfield, its roof bowed under years of rain. Rust streaked the walls like dried blood. Ethan moved through the gate's gap, boots whispering against the wet concrete. His breath formed small clouds in the cold air.
Inside, a single bulb swung from a cable, casting an amber circle of light over a table and two metal chairs. A man waited there—mid-fifties, trench coat, nervous eyes. He gripped a silver briefcase as though it contained his heartbeat.
"Mr. Voss," he said, voice echoing in the hollow space. "You're early."
"I don't sleep much." Ethan's tone was flat, steady. "You have something for me."
The man nodded quickly and placed the briefcase on the table. "The files you asked for. Proof that Specter Division is operational again—in Europe, Asia, maybe even inside the Agency." His hands trembled. "Once you open it… they'll know. They'll come for you."
Ethan's expression didn't change. "They already do."
He set a micro-drive on the table. "Payment's encoded. You'll find your account cleared in sixty seconds."
The man exhaled in relief. Then his gaze flicked upward—over Ethan's shoulder—and froze. His pupils widened.
Ethan moved before thought could form. His pistol cleared its holster in a whisper.
A muted pop cracked through the air. The man jerked once, a neat hole appearing above his left eye, and collapsed across the table.
Ethan spun, already firing toward the shadows.
Two figures descended from the rafters, their movements sharp, professional. Silencers flashed twice—he ducked, rolled, returned fire. One went down instantly; the other managed a shout before a second round took him in the throat. The echo faded into dripping rain.
Ethan stood still for a moment, heart pounding. The warehouse smelled of gunpowder and rust.
He crouched beside a body. No insignia. No serials. Just clean tactical suits—military, but not government. Then he saw it: a faint engraving on the rifle's stock—a crescent sliced by a single vertical line.
His stomach tightened.
That was his team's mark.
No one outside the Prague operation should've known it existed.
He opened the silver briefcase. Inside, beneath a layer of foam, a glowing data core pulsed blue. Letters scrolled across its surface:
> PROJECT SPECTER: ACTIVE
Ethan's throat went dry. For years he'd convinced himself Specter had burned with the Prague facility. But here it was—alive, evolving.
Then a faint vibration broke the silence. A phone, ringing.
It came from the dead man's coat.
Ethan hesitated, then answered.
"Cross," a calm male voice said through the static. The word hit like a knife. No one had called him by that name in five years.
"Who is this?" Ethan demanded.
"You already know," the voice replied, smooth, almost amused. "Prague was messy. But the game isn't over. You're still a piece on the board."
The line clicked dead.
For a long second, Ethan stared at the phone. Then, instinct screamed.
He dived behind a support beam just as the windows exploded inward.
Automatic fire shredded the air. Sparks danced across steel. Ethan returned controlled bursts—two, three shots—then sprinted toward the rear exit. His lungs burned as he crashed through the side door into the rain.
Outside, fog rolled across the empty street. Headlights flared—a black SUV roared from an alley. Ethan dropped to one knee, fired once. The bullet punched through the hood. The vehicle veered, slammed into a lamppost, and burst into flames. Shattered glass glittered like falling stars.
He didn't wait to watch it burn. He vanished into the mist.
---
Later — Ethan's Apartment
Dawn crept over Berlin, pale and reluctant. Ethan sat at his desk, a towel draped around his shoulders, blood drying on his sleeve. The glowing drive rested before him like an accusation.
He connected it to a secure terminal. Lines of encrypted data cascaded down the screen, unreadable gibberish except for a single phrase that repeated every few seconds:
> ACCESS RESTRICTED // AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL: CROSS, E.
His name. His real name. Embedded inside the file.
Someone wanted him to find it.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes heavy but mind racing. The voice on the phone—smooth, confident—had belonged to someone inside the old Agency. Maybe even the handler who'd sold them out.
Five years ago, that betrayal had cost him everything: his mentor, his team, his identity.
Now the past was calling him back.
He stood, moving to the window. The sunrise painted the city gold, but his reflection stared like a stranger—a man wearing too many faces.
"For five years," he whispered, "I've been running from ghosts."
He reached for the data drive. Its blue light flickered once, like a heartbeat.
"Now it's their turn."